


off-grid

by the_real_cactus_betty



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Cowboy AU, Going to add tags as I go - it's a long one, Hurt/Comfort, Logan Riding Horses, Murder Mystery, Slow Burn, team detecting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:41:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28846230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_real_cactus_betty/pseuds/the_real_cactus_betty
Summary: Logan Echolls hides on his ranch from the world.Veronica Mars hides from life.Joseph Moyer hides in a cabin, outrunning a murder charge.The three meet in the foothills of the Beartooth Mountains, Montana.
Relationships: Logan Echolls/Veronica Mars
Comments: 82
Kudos: 80





	1. Living Is A Problem Because Everything Dies

**Author's Note:**

> Canon characters, AU.  
> Logan and Veronica went to school together.  
> \------  
> Thank you to Aurora2020, as always, for her encouragement, assistance, and ability to interpret my moods through gifs.

Veronica sits in her silver Toyota outside her apartment reading the obituaries from yesterday’s newspaper. Empty coffee cups and trash line the footwell, a mountainous peak of files teeter on the passenger seat. She spent last night asleep in her own bed, for the first time in a week, buried under those files. They lay on top of her like a paper fortress, laptop open, snapping away at the keys, searching, finding, researching. Evidence. Physical, touchable evidence that she could let her brain draw invisible lines between. Another puzzle to solve, another asshole to find, another dollar to make.

There is a buzzing sound coming from somewhere in the car. She looks around but can’t see anything, unsurprised by the presence of insects festering in the mayhem. She would get to the mess tomorrow, if she had time. But she never had time anymore. Everything gets pushed to the next day, then the next, until it is eventually ignored. There weren’t enough hours in the day, or maybe there were, and she just wished there weren’t.

The bluetooth picks up a call, it’s Keith. Her heart rate increases seeing his name, tapping the call accept button.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” His tone is dry.

“Is everything okay?”

“It’s ten am.”

“Yeah, I’m just driving now,” she lies, “Why? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Someone might come in,” he says.

Veronica nods but doesn’t reply audibly. Keith no longer meets with clients.

She burrows below the passenger seat for the box of granola bars, but finds it empty. She groans, throwing it back in the pile.

“Veronica, are you there?”

“Yeah, yeah, be there in ten.”

He hangs up without another word.

In the absence of breakfast, Veronica finds some gum and shoves it in her mouth before pulling out onto the road. She drives in silence, listening to the drone of tire revolutions on asphalt.

The buzzing returns, she feels her blood pressure spike with it. A bee pulls around the side of her headrest, barreling past her ear, and flies into the windscreen repeatedly with gusto. Veronica swats at it. Unperturbed, it hovers back beside the glass, checking for further exits. She opens her window, hoping that the wind will suck it out, but the bee seems oblivious to the change in cabin pressure. Veronica reaches down, rifling through the pile of garbage on the floor, narrowly missing the tail end of a truck. She comes back up with the empty granola bar box. Without a second thought, she pummels the bee with the cardboard box, and it explodes against the windshield, a smear of black with flecks of yellow. She celebrates by throwing the box back onto the trash pile.

Pulling into the empty parking lot at the front of Mars Investigations, Veronica drags the handbrake and leaves the remains of the bee right where it met its fate. By tonight, its innards would be solidified, baked in the Californian sun.

Mars Investigations 4.0 now sits in a 70s brick strip mall, sandwiched in between _The Pleasure Chest_ , a 24-hour sex shop and _Family Pho,_ a questionable Vietnamese soup establishment that has its meat delivered in unrefrigerated graffiti laced trucks. Veronica would report them if their Spicy Beef Noodle wasn’t so suspiciously delicious.

She collects the stack of files, balancing it on her hip and makes her way to the front of the office. Mickey sits outside, watching her battle the pile, long legs draped across the pavement so you would have to either step over him, or walk into the parking lot to get around him. He wears a blue hoodie, black sweats and sneakers that we’re probably white a decade ago. He inclines his head to Veronica and extends two fingers in the universal symbol for cigarette.

“Don’t smoke, Mickey.” 

“Got a light?”

Nope. Just like yesterday, and the day before it.

“Fuck off, Mickey, move to another spot,” she snaps. He’s a part of the decor in their little corner of hell, she’s not sure that clients could find the office if it wasn’t for Mickey’s continual presence by their front entry, like a junkie doorstop.

Mickey just turns his head to the side, ignoring her, patiently awaiting his next fix.

Flipping through her wad of keys one handed, she slides up the roller shades one by one; they spool themselves above in a clanging racket. The bell above the door chimes festively as she pushes it open to the least festive place on the planet. Maroon stained carpet and a chapped leather seat in the tiny ‘waiting area’, a dark and unwelcoming hole, despite the large windows. The combined smell of damp and brewing master stock permeates from next door. Behind the waiting area, the office was separated into three pokey rooms off a hallway with a small bathroom, a kitchen in the back provided access to a rear access door surrounded by dumpsters. It was an embarrassment. They had become the embodiment of a seedy PI agency. At the start they were clean, fresh, _different,_ convinced they’d shaken the stereotype. But now, they had molded themselves _into_ the stereotype. Like breeds like, and while they were known for their tenacity in solving cases, the only cases that came their way now were the bottom feeders, at bottom feeder rates.

Veronica walks through the waiting area, past Keith’s ‘apartment’ which comprises an unused office space with a double bed inside. The room has no window as it’s flanked by The Pleasure Chest to the right. Keith claims he doesn’t mind, it saves him paying rent in an apartment that he would hardly frequent anyway. The rowdy patrons next door keep him company at all hours through thin asbestos wells held together with multiple coats of peeling teal paint. 

She dumps the stack of files in her office and keeps walking to find Keith behind his desk. He’s fighting with a pen which apparently will not work, or hands that will not work, she can’t tell the difference anymore.

“Give up, get another pen,” Veronica leans against his door frame.

“But it’s my favorite.”

She rifles through her bag, pulls out a pen, identical to his, and throws it at him. It slides across the desk and hits his chipped coffee mug. Veronica wonders if there is actually any coffee in it today. 

He clicks the end and tries it, grumbles and shrugs. They’re in perpetual rivalry, battling over who can be madder at the world. Today, the crown probably goes to him, he kind of has the corner on the market now. 

“Any appointments?” she asks, like he’s her secretary.

Keith shakes his head, “How was last night? Get anything on McHenry?”

“Only a visit to The Greek Tavern, alone, no Patricia in sight.”

He sighs at another night of wasted time, face back down in his notes.

“I’m getting some breakfast, you want?”

Keith motions to the coffee beside him like he’s all set.

Veronica shrugs and wanders into the kitchenette, rifles through the cupboards and finds some moldy bread, then some Pop Tarts. She checks the expiration date, like that would even matter, before ripping open the foil and depositing them in the toaster and putting on a pot of coffee. She exits the kitchen a few minutes later, mug in hand and strawberry Pop Tart balanced between her teeth. The bell chimes and Mac walks through the door. Veronica’s face lifts in the nearest it comes to a smile now and nods to her office, Mac follows her in. She opens her mouth, letting the Pop Tart fall on the desk.

“Well, this is a pleasure, I gotta be honest, my normal ten thirty is a beefy mid-fifties man with a wife who’s banging the hot yoga teacher.”

“Admit it, Veronica, you love those cases, get to use your super lens on the yoga teacher’s ripped abs.”

“Only doing my job,” Veronica collapses into her seat, Mac takes the client chair, crossing her legs in a form fitting knee-length skirt. She notices how tired Veronica looks, shadows of gray below her eyes, but lets it pass unremarked.

She reaches across the desk and pokes at Veronica’s broken Pop Tart, “Nutritious snack?”

“Breakfast of champions,” Veronica replies, and Mac chuckles.

Veronica takes a bite, “To what do I owe the pleasure of a daytime visit?”

Mac spends twelve-hour days in a twentieth-floor office in the city, working as a Systems Analyst for a large accounting firm. She despises the monotony of the work but enjoys the benefits of decent pay and autonomy the role provides. So naturally, Mac moonlights as an associate to Veronica’s side-hustle, where they each do what they do best, finding information, finding people.

Mac stands and walks to the door, closing it.

“How thin are these walls?”

“I think this place used to be a brothel, I doubt it’s been soundproofed,” Veronica says, alert now, leaning toward her friend.

Mac looks around the room, “Gross, that explains a shower in an office building, and the smell.”

Veronica turns her hand, urging Mac to get to the point, the reason for the uncharacteristic daytime visit.

“I think I found something for you,” She rifles through her briefcase and hands Veronica a single piece of paper.

**_NOTICE OF $100,000 REWARD OFFERED BY THE LOS ANGELES COUNTY BOARD OF SUPERVISORS_ **

_Notice is hereby given that the Board of Supervisors of the County of Los Angeles has established a $100,000 reward offered in exchange for information leading to the apprehension of Joseph Moyer for the heinous ambush shooting of two Los Angeles County Sheriff Deputies, while sitting in their patrol vehicle at the Coffee Pavillion, Burbank on September 14, 2013, at approximately 5:29 a.m. One officer perished in the attack, the other was seriously injured._

_Joseph Moyer was captured on surveillance footage making the attack and a 9mm OZ9 pistol was found nearby bearing his fingerprints._

_Known Aliases:_

_Joe Moyer, Joseph Robinson and Alexander (Lex) Durham._

_Do not approach the suspect. Suspect is dangerous and may be armed._

_Si no entiende esta noticia o necesita más información, favor de llamar al (323) 523-5588._

_Any person having any information related to Joseph Moyer whereabouts is requested to call Sergeant Luke Mitchell at the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, Homicide Bureau at (323) 523-5588 and refer to Report No. 900-04513-5423-051._

Veronica stops reading, “We already looked into this one, it was a dead end.”

Joseph Moyer was their white whale, the one they’d sat up late at night and delved into time and time again only to encounter one roadblock after another to his whereabouts. It piqued their interest with a rare reward in that it didn’t require the apprehension of the wanted person, only the disclosure of his location. The involvement of two police officers meant the compensation was significantly higher than was the norm.

Mac shakes her head, “I went a little further, I think it’s got potential.”

Veronica takes a sip of her coffee and looks at the page again, waiting for Mac to continue.

“You remember that suspected sighting of him in Red Lodge?" 

Veronica nods. There were countless reported sightings. One hundred thousand dollar rewards tend to procure all manner of claims for a fugitive's whereabouts. Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco, eating a lemon gelato, a bank in San Antonio, shopping at wholefoods in Tulsa. The Red Lodge tip was the only one that had made the news, accompanied by a blurry still from security footage. It _could_ be Moyer, it also _could_ be Nicholas Cage.

"Well, I ran a title search in Carbon County.”

“And…” Veronica interrupts.

“And I found something. One of his aliases Lex Durham purchased an acreage in Montana, six months after the murders.”

Mac pulls out a black and white photocopy of a driver’s licence and Veronica leans over it. A vanilla blond tendril falls across her eyes and she swipes it behind her ear.

“This is the Washington State Licence Lex Durham used as ID with the escrow agent,” she then places a large mugshot beside it, “and _this,_ is Joseph Moyer.”

The same square face, jowls with deep cheek lines, a nose like a retired football player and a birthmark, a small line, just under the left eye.

“Shit,” Veronica leans in even closer, “it’s him.”

Veronica and Mac had stumbled upon these rewards for information six months earlier after another botched attempt at a bounty. Mac’s boyfriend, Luke, regards them with nothing more than a raised eyebrow as he watches Seinfeld reruns and lets them overtake his dining table as they brainstorm different avenues for finding their latest person of interest. At the end of an episode he will pull himself from the couch and cook them a chilli-laden Pad Thai, which they consume, heads down, as he flicks the television back on. While they trawl through county after county of rewards offered and try to find a link, any link. Something, somewhere that they can uncover. A strictly out of work hours endeavor, imperative that Keith was kept in the dark. 

“Wait,” Veronica snaps her head up from the photos, “You waited a week to tell me this?”

Mac unfolds a large map of southwest Montana, covered with sharpie lines of red zig-zagged borders not dissimilar to a jigsaw puzzle. She points to a dark green patch, “This is the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness, part of Custer National Park, just shy of a million acres of peaks and forest. North of Yellowstone, it’s mostly in Montana, some of it flanks the north of Wyoming.”

Then her manicured finger points to a small outlined border beside the green, in the shape of a U.

“This is the property, one hundred and fifty acres. Look around it. On the east, it’s surrounded by just over 50,000 acres of private land and on the west is the national park, virtually impassable, no walking paths, no trails, we’re talking sheer granite cliffs.”

“Okay.”

“Notice anything?”

Veronica looks closer, but doesn’t note anything significant. “No.”

“There are no roads to his property. It sold ridiculously cheap because it’s inaccessible, completely land-locked. There is no electricity cabling there, no phone reception or freshwater access.”

“So maybe he bought it and doesn’t live there? Do murderers make investments and hope for returns?” Veronica says, looking back over the driver's license image of him. Black and white, his pale blue eyes not lost in photostat translation.

“I thought that too, then I checked out some satellite images.”

“Legally, of course?” Veronica asks with a grin.

“Of course!”

They both laugh mirthlessly.

“And?”

She pulls out the image. In a thick of varying pixelated greens and browns, there is a large square gray object between the trees.

“What is this, a cabin, a shed?”

Mac shrugs, “But look, whatever it is, it’s changing.” Beside it she places another photo, one is dated 2017, the other in 2019. Between the two years, the gray mass has grown, extending out to the west.

“He’s building something.”

They both pause and stare, compelled by the grainy images.

“It’s not enough for a reward,” Mac says, “It could be anyone there, the LAPD aren’t going to go out of jurisdiction and hike to a remote property with no actual evidence that he is there.”

Veronica nods, Mac can see her booking flight tickets in her head.

“So, how do we get here?”

Mac hesitates for a moment, “Well, I found all this out last week. But I didn’t tell you, because I knew you’d be on the first plane out to the middle of nowhere and end up lost with exposure out in the wilderness.”

Veronica smiles at her friend’s accurate assumption, “So, what’s changed?”

Mac pulls out another piece of paper, gently placing it in a perfect square on Veronica’s plywood desk. A deed of ownership, 51,000 acres owned by Logan Echolls. She looks back at the map, the U shape surrounding Lex Durham’s and runs her hand across the expanse of land.

“What the…?”

“Yep.”

They both pause, staring at it.

“He’s your in,” Mac says.

“ _Logan Echolls_ is my in?” Veronica scoffs.

“He owns the land, Veronica, it’s better than nothing. He knows you, you can use his property to access Moyer’s, all you need to do is get close enough, get some photographs. Take them back to the LAPD and they will do the rest and you get your cash.”

Veronica stands, paces around the room, she knows it’s not that easy, rewards are only paid on convictions. But from the information on the reward notice, they have physical evidence linking him to the crime, the murder of a police officer no less, a speedy trial would ensure a quick conviction and payday.

“Logan probably doesn’t even live there, you know millionaires, famous people, they have a house in every state,” says Veronica, mulling the swirling questions in her mind.

Mac never misses a beat, “He lives there. Rock Creek Ranch, he runs cattle and rehabilitates horses, a regular John Wayne.”

Veronica scrunches her nose, “You’ve gotta have the wrong Logan Echolls. He was living in LA, wasn’t he? Granted, I haven’t seen his name in the tabloids for the last few years.”

“It’s him,” says Mac with authority.

“I barely had a dozen conversations with him in high school.”

“Veronica, you helped him once, he will remember that.”

She laughs bitterly, “Considering the outcome, he’d hardly forget it.”

“Exactly.”

Veronica eyes the map laid out before glancing back over the notice, hovering over the $100,000 reward. Her fingers twitch at the amount of money, but she won’t allow the elation to creep to her face. The stack of files beside her, spousal cheating cases, low-level fraud at $300 - $500 a pop. Chump change, barely enough to warrant rolling out of bed in the morning, that’s if she goes home at all and doesn’t fall asleep in her car again surveilling another cheating asshole at another shitty hotel. 

“What will you tell Keith?” Mac asks, knowing that Veronica will proceed with or without Keith’s approval.

“Leave it with me.” 

* * *

After hours of furious google searching and planning, Veronica realizes she hasn’t heard or seen Keith since this morning. She hides away the maps and heads to his office, opening the door without knocking, he glances up from his ancient laptop. Veronica sidles up to his desk, leaning over him, reading the screen.

“You spelled their wrong, it’s t-h-e-y-apostrophe-r-e.”

Tremorous fingers suspended mid-air, he jerks and snaps the laptop shut to give Veronica a shadow of the fatherly stare he had patented when she was five.

Working together for so many years, their relationship had ceased to be that of a father and daughter. They were more like prison mates, lining up on the daily to receive their lumps of mash on steel trays. Lifers, hardened and cold, passing each other in halls with an incline of the head. It was easier to see Keith that way for Veronica. She pushed him away and, in turn, pushed herself out of her own body, cauterized from the inside. Numbing herself from the inevitable, a constant reminder each time she looked at him.

He stares at her, penetrating, “When are you leaving?”

She pauses, hesitating to answer, “You heard?”

“I’m not an idiot Veronica, I know you do bounties on the side, I know you’re chasing rewards.”

“It’s not like I’ve got many other options right now.”

“Let it be known, I think this is a bad idea. I don’t like it. It’s dangerous and stupid, but I realize that’s really you’re favorite concoction of things to be. You are an adult and you are going to ignore what I say, much like you have been doing since you were fifteen, so really I’m not sure why I even waste my breath,” when he finishes the sentence he’s actually out of breath, ironic in the saddest of ways.

Veronica feels the tug of compassion in her chest, that her father is only concerned for her welfare, but she slams it down with a clenched fist and draws herself back to reality.

“I’ll get Cliff to come by and help you while I’m gone, Mac can come by too. We’ll just close up the front doors and you can only take phone consults,” she offers.

“It’s not about that Veronica, I can take care of myself.”

She eyes him skeptically.

“We aren’t in a position to be fussy, dad and you know it.” She points a finger to the ‘pile’, the basket that sits atop a rusted green filing cabinet in the corner. The pile doesn’t lie. If you could tell a horror story, one that would send chills down the spine of any low to middle income American, you would start with that pile. An anthology of bills. The top few layers contained the usual red ‘last reminders’ on electric, rent and phone. When you delve deeper, past the rejected insurance paperwork, the maxed out credit cards, you reach the folder section. This is where the fun really begins, imaging bills, medical bills. Medical bills so big you know a lifetime of PI work wouldn’t even scratch the sides. They were five years past sold houses and second mortgages, all lifelines exhausted.

”What if you can’t find him? What then?” he looks at her, not the pile.

“Then I come home again and I pull out my camera and I take more photos of Mark McHenry fucking Patricia Abraham.”

“And what if you _can_ find him, Veronica? What if a fugitive murderer who lives in the middle of nowhere finds a lovely, young woman taking photos of him in his secret location, what happens then?”

She shakes her head, “You know I’m careful, I’ve been doing this for _years.”_

“Veronica, you are lots of things, but I would never describe you as careful.”

He sighs, long and protracted, looking to the warped ceiling for answers.

“This conversation is over, Dad. I’m going to work out the logistics, but if everything lines up, it’s happening.”

“I’ll find a way to make it work, Veronica,” Keith pleads, but he won’t look at the pile, too frightened to make direct eye contact.

“I’m 33 dad, I’m past being able to gloss over the fucking nightmare we’re living in with _‘we’ll make it work’,_ the problem is we’re _not_ making it work, we haven’t been in _years!_ ”

“Veron...”

“NO!” She yells, silencing him, “I’m doing this, it’s happening. I will go to Montana and I will find Joseph Moyer and I will come back and will personally cash a check for one hundred thousand dollars and I will knock that whole top layer off that pile.”

Keith’s head drops in a state of confounded lethargy and he pushes himself out from the desk. He has exhausted the fight in him and Veronica knows it. A few years ago, he might have persisted, dragged this out into a fatherly battle that would rage and incite even Duc Nguyen next door to raise his eyebrows. But Keith Mars was tired, more so than Veronica. What little of his hair left had gone white, the lines on his face heavy, ligaments limp, straining to hold skin to the bones. He looked like someone pulled a skeleton out of a biology classroom and folded it in half. 

Keith takes the hand rim of his wheelchair with swollen, yellowed knuckles and pulls himself silently out of the room. 

Veronica looks at the pile. The bills could wait. They would be there tomorrow, next week, next year, probably the next decade. She had no intention of that one hundred thousand dollars going towards the pile.

It was going to go towards Keith’s treatment, whether he liked it or not.


	2. Big Sky Country

Logan circles the yard, leather boots in sand. The gelding canters with each flick of his rope. He wanders in a closed circle, right foot before left, always walking towards the horse’s hindquarters in a sure, even pace. If he lags, Logan moves the rope again. It never makes contact, just a silent reminder that this isn’t a holiday, this is work. The horse pulls to a stop and Logan switches directions, left foot first this time, and the gelding turns, familiar with the routine and trots in the other direction. Another movement of the rope cracks him along, a full canter now. Logan leaves a nice long rope, keeping his space, and giving the horse his own. Hoofbeats make gentle thuds on the sand when he senses a presence walking up to the yard. The sun makes its fall to kiss the tips of the mountains that flank him to the west and he looks out, squinting, raising his hat. She climbs onto the first beam of the post and rail fence, leaning over the top, blonde plait falling to the side, watching them.

“He’s doing much better,” she calls out, regarding the horse with a keen eye.

Logan nods, dropping the rope to the ground, signaling the end of today’s workout. Hunter drops in pace, coming to a brusque stop. Logan pulls the gloves from his fingers and runs a hand through the wiry black mane and down across his withers, the skin retracts and shivers against his touch, ears pulling back. 

“He’s still sore,” says Logan, pulling his hand back.

“I’ll work him a little more this weekend, might take him for a hike up along the river with Opie tomorrow,” says Piper as she unlatches the gate and holds it open as Logan and Hunter walk through toward the stables. 

Hunter’s gait is wide, but he remains behind Logan, lead-rope between them, the unspoken laws of master and servant. The gelding had sustained a back injury and was deemed lame which meant a cheap sale and the target of kill buyers looking to send horse exports to slaughter in Mexico. But Logan saw potential for healing and re-homing, like many of his other equine projects, and tends to each of them in their rehabilitation. Horses, unlike humans, deserve a second chance.

Piper closes the gate and jogs to catch up with Logan and Hunter, taking the rope from his hand as he gives her a playful nudge.

“If you’re going to keep doing all my work for me, what am I supposed to do around here?” he says.

“If you want a job…” she replies in a distinct voice, replicating his own with eyebrows raised.

“No, no, no, I’m not looking for more to do,” he holds up his hands in surrender and smiles.

The workload on the acreage is never ending. Even with five full-time ranch hands, there is always stock rotation, harvest, a fence to fix, an animal needing care, water sources to be checked, and the list goes on and on and on.

As they walk Logan looks to the sky, the color of August, endless beckoning blue. The finale of the warm days drawing to a close, leaves taking their last hold of branches before succumbing to the Fall winds that sweep them down the gullies and over the plains. He knows that in a few months he’ll miss the warmth on his face when there is nothing but infinite snow. Logan basks in the changing of seasons he experiences in Montana. Seasons that were absent from Southern California, where sticky warm summers and warm winters punctuate daily blue skies and the requirement for a jacket at any time of year was negligible. His vistas of teen years, crashing waves and sand are replaced by the undulating plains, the way they roll like water until they greet the mountains, rising into the clouds like great sleeping giants. Here, he learns to enjoy the frosts of Fall that morph into a foot of snow in winter, the tips of native grasses peeking their heads from the white. Some days the wind howls so fiercely down from the peaks and through the valley he can barely keep upright. In spring, the melt fills the creeks and rivers in a bursting flux and he feels himself thaw as well. Each season with its own distinct smell, its own spirit, and its own set of tasks to ensure the smooth operation of the ranch. So he takes another moment to absorb the warm light, just walk and take it in, a mass of dappled-gray muscle by his side.

Piper turns her head as she walks, watching him, watching the mountains. She faces forward again, her plait swaying with her. Piper’s long hair had taken on a life of its own. It reached almost to her thighs, but each day she diligently braided it, which pulled it up to rest at her waist, thick and heavy, the color of wheat fields just before harvest, and there were more than enough around here for reference. She settles the horse in her stall, taking a moment to rest her face flat against Hunter’s long one, a tender hand rises and sweeps her forelock to the side. The horse doesn’t move, allowing Piper unblinking intimacy and trust. Logan isn’t sure where this innate connection with animals came from. She exuded a calm that he rarely felt he possessed, and all creatures seemed to respond in turn. So many times he tried to replicate it in his own interactions with the animals, only recently had he felt what Piper had since she was young. Respect.

Piper removes the halter. Freed, Hunter walks to the wall and begins scratching his face against the rough wooden railing. Together they collect handfuls of dry hay and fill the nets. They check the rest of the stables, topping up water as they go. The blue sky fades to gray as they work in companionable silence. Her initial resentment of their move to the middle of nowhere seems long gone now, distracted by their endless tasks. Duties completed, they take a final pass along the barn, checking all the latches are closed. Nine horses in total today, one less than last month.

They begin the walk back to the ranch and an off-white pickup pulls up, Bill and Houdini exit, each shuffling a soft stroll on gravel towards them.

“Hey Bill, can you…” Logan starts and Bill nods before he finishes his sentence, Bill was already on the way, Houdini the labrador in tow, to give the calves the last feed of the day. 

“Night Bill,” Piper calls and Logan can tell, even from behind, that Bill’s smiling as he raises a palm in a wave. 

“What would you do without Bill?” she asks.

“I’d be back in California,” Logan replies, honestly.

Bill had become Logan’s ranch manager four years ago. He is a stoic, old-fashioned man who didn’t use ten words when three would do. The ones he did use were often interrupted with a wet tobacco hacking and missiles of phlegm that careen out of the corner of his lips to whack the earth. He is the closest thing that Logan has here to a friend, if you could consider a friend someone you pay biweekly. Bill is a general handyman, diesel mechanic, fence repairer, farrier to the horses and rudimentary veterinarian. He understands the land, the weather, the movements of herds in a way that Logan admires and seeks to learn.

The first year here, Logan went through staff on the farm with astonishing turnover, from general uselessness, thievery, to the most common issue, a reluctance to sign and abide by his non-disclosure agreement. But Bill, he was different.

Logan met Bill while collecting his first horse, Lightning. The name itself should have been a warning, but it was one that Logan didn’t heed. Green in all matters of horse riding and care, he was a man with a ranch, and every man with a ranch needed a horse. One afternoon at a foreclosure two farms from his own, he’d just purchased Lightning and was attempting to load the mare onto his brand new trailer. The sale had cleared out, but Logan remained, walking circle after frustrating circle, trying to get the horse to load, unsuccessfully. On the fifteenth try, or maybe the twentieth, Logan saw a man out of the corner of his eye, watching him, arm resting over the yards, cigarette dangling from his mouth like the Marlboro man. He tried to ignore the audience, tugging at the rope, clicking the horse on, taking sure, even paces towards the trailer and then at the last minute, just as he was about to hit the ramp, she shied, spinning on her hind legs, slamming over a thousand pounds of rump against him. Logan’s arm ricocheted off the metal divider and he was certain he could hear the snapping of bone as the instantaneous flood of heat drew to his wound. No chance to inspect his arm before Lightning jerked her head backward, ripping the lead rope through his semi-clutched, injured hand. The horse bolted backward twenty paces, placed her head down and began munching on green tendrils of wild oats. 

Logan staggered out of the trailer, shocked, and found that the man was holding onto Lightning’s lead rope, a rotund labrador by his side, sniffing at the horse.

“D’ya check if she was trained for trailers?” the man asked.

“My knowledge on which is the front, and which is the back of the horse is questionable, I must have missed the book on checking for horse-trailer-training,” said Logan while he wiggled his fingers to check for breaks, feeling the flames of pain dissipate to a steady throb.

The man ignored Logan’s comment, “Mind if I try?”

Logan gave a raised eyebrow, then a nod of reply.

“First thing, if you only have one horse, load to the left.”

“Sure, why?”

“Camber of the road, you got over a thousand pounds on the right side, you’ll flip ya trailer.”

“Makes sense,” Logan replied. Everything about this new life was a learning curve. Sometimes he felt like he was a newborn in the early stages of standing, he kept falling right back down again each time he dragged himself up.

He watched as the man made several attempts, pressing his fingers into the barrel of her stomach, behind her legs, making various clicking noises, taps on her rump. But he seemed to make no more progress than Logan had.

“Well fuck me. She won’t load,” he said, taking out rolling paper, pulling apart the tobacco and settling it in its paper nest. He swiped with the edge of a tongue, twisted between grimy fingers and lit it with a match in a matter of seconds. 

“Don’t suppose I could tie her to the truck and drive real slow?” Logan joked, but considered it for a moment as he was fresh out of options, “Thanks for trying,” he added.

“What’s ya name?” the man asked. He seemed to speak without opening his mouth.

“Logan.”

“Fuckin’ weird name.”

Logan laughs, “What’s yours then?”

“Bill,” which he pronounced Beeeel, still without opening his mouth.

Bill is in his fifties, but too much sun and too much life has prematurely dragged his face into his sixties. He wore a Stetson, frayed blue button-down, Wranglers and embroidered cowboy boots layered with years of dust and mud.

“Where’d ya live?” Bill asked.

“Rock Creek Ranch.” 

Bill nodded like he knew it, took an extended drag and seemed to think about this for a while.

“D’ she come with tack, a saddle?”

Logan nodded, Bill squinted in the sunlight as he looked down the driveway and down the road.

“I could ride ‘er,” Bill said.

And because he had no other option, Logan agreed to the idea. He gave Bill directions that it appeared he had no need of, watched him haul himself up, step into the stirrups, and set off. Logan started up his truck and drove home. There he sat on the couch icing his swollen arm, certain that he’d just exchanged a ten thousand dollar horse for an obese labrador who lay by his legs, snoring. Time dragged on and it grew dark. Finally, he heard his own dogs bark, and he bolted from his chair, out the door, and there were Bill and Lightning. Strolling down the drive in the darkness, the glow from his cigarette signaling their approach.

Bill dismounted and stretched out his legs.

“Thanks Bill, you really got me out of a jam. Can I pay you for your help?” Logan outstretched his palm for a handshake and Bill obliged with a sweaty return, Logan reached into his back pocket for a wallet but Bill just shook his head and waved his hand. They walked to the stables with Lightning, undid the halter and stood by the gate in the darkness. As Bill leaned against it, the metal frame dropped with his weight.

“Ya gate’s fucked,” he said, ambling to where the gate met the fence and began to mend it, and from that day, he never really left. Logan never made him sign an NDA like the others. Once when they were moving cattle through the foothills amongst ponderosa pines Logan asked him not to tell anyone about Piper and himself. 

Bill just eyed him with confusion, “The fuck’d anyone wanna know about _you_?” he asked, skeptically.

“I don’t know, some people just do,” Logan replied.

“Well, I’d just tell ‘em ta fuck off.”

Bill moved into the stone cabin under the ancient gnarled Bristlecone and became part of the ranch scenery, anticipating Logan’s needs before he knew them, teaching Logan what’s required for the upkeep of a ranch and the responsibilities that that entails. And slowly, surely, Bill helped Logan to walk steadily on two feet and take control of his own land.

* * *

After washing the day’s dust from his skin under a hot stream, Logan collects items from the fridge for the Friday night stir fry. He’s now a reluctant vegetarian after Piper’s recent proclamation against the consumption of animals. When only cooking for the two of them, it’s hardly worth separate meals. He slices vegetables and doesn’t dare broach the irony of being a vegetarian on a cattle ranch.

Piper appears fresh-faced wearing an oversized Billings Mustangs t-shirt and pajama bottoms. She stands beside Logan and picks at the raw broccoli he just chopped, chewing thoughtfully. He fires up the work burner and adds coconut oil, watching it go from a solid white glob to slick and clear. 

“Don’t you have homework to do? x plus y equals z and all those ridiculously complex theorems you love?” He can see her hesitate, consider an excuse, and reconsider before rising with a sigh to collect the books from her backpack. She lays them out with a calculator and a pencil, but leaves them untouched, glancing at his phone, illuminated and vibrating on the marble countertop.

“It’s ringing,” she says.

Logan looks at it, an unlisted number displaying on the screen as it dances to the edge with each pulse. 

“Unlisted,” he says, turning away.

The phone stops vibrating, and Piper can see four missed calls listed in the alerts.

“What if it’s the hospital and Grandma’s had an accident, or Dick, calling for you to bail him out of jail?”

“Well, if it’s any of those, they will leave me a voicemail and I will call them back. Whoever is calling today hasn’t left one voicemail,” Logan replies, turning back to the wok, focusing on the simmering of garlic and shallots. He can feel Piper staring at the back of his head. 

“Dad…” she starts nonchalantly, and he knows whatever is coming next is bound to be trouble. 

“Uh oh.”

“Why do you assume it will be bad?”

He laughs, “Because you’re fifteen, anything you possibly say in that tone will make me have nightmares.”

She rolls her eyes, “You’re such a drama queen.”

Logan places an invisible crown on his head before winking, picking up the chopping board and depositing the julienned vegetables into the hot wok.

“Okay, spit it out. What do you want?”

Piper still hasn’t opened her homework, instead playing with the wet ends of her hair sitting on the counter as she speaks, “Sienna’s mom asked if I could go to a sleepover next Friday.”

“The fatherly thing to say here would be, will her parents be there?”

“Of course,” she says. 

“Well, I will be speaking to her mother about that, just to be sure,” he says as he tries not to think about what he was doing at fifteen. But with it came the realization that at fifteen, he wouldn’t have even asked parental permission for such a thing, let alone abided by the response. Piper was a good kid. He was wholly unsure how he stumbled upon such luck, with her family lineage surely she should be shimmying out of windows by now or have spent at least one night in the lock-up. But, alas, his teen preferred mystery novels and daily horse rides to any interactions with the opposite sex. He wasn’t complaining, just enjoying the quiet while it lasted.

“Sienna’s Mom would _love_ that. She said when you drop me off you could stop by for a coffee... or a wine,” Piper raises her eyebrows, awaiting Logan’s response.

Sienna’s mom was one of a few mothers at Piper’s school who showed Logan particular interest. He was sure that being a widow emitted some mysterious pheromone from his pores that made him irresistible. That, or the fact they were simply digging for information, a scrap to feed the hungry paparazzi on a slow news day. So he keeps his distance as much as possible, preferring school drop offs and pickups only, rarely leaving the comfort of his truck. If he has to enter the school grounds for an art fair or a play they descend on him like hungry wolves. But he keeps his cool. For Piper.

“I have a coffee machine here, perfect working order, and a wine cellar. I can drop you off, no drinks required.”

Piper smiles, “Drink or no drink, Dad, she’s still going to corner you. She’s divorced and thinks you’re rugged.”

“ _Rugged_ , hey?” he waggles his eyebrows and swipes fingers across the stubble on his jaw.

“Daaad!”

“Fear not, I’m pretty wily, I can probably outrun her.”

“She does pilates, the type on machines!” replies Piper.

“Are you trying to sell me, or dissuade me from her?”

“Please don’t marry her, then I’ll have to be sisters with Sienna and I like her and all, but I can’t live with her. I like being an only child.”

“It’s all the Christmas presents, isn’t it? You don’t want to share?” Logan asks.

Piper rolls her eyes at him.

“Hand on heart Piper Echolls, I swear I will not marry any of the moms from school,” he makes a cross on his heart. 

“Even Nelly’s mom?” she asks, knowing precisely how stunning Nelly’s mom is, a fact which didn’t skip Logan’s attention.

“Even Nelly’s mom.” This time he holds out a pinky to swear on, but she doesn’t present her own, instead grumbling, unconvinced. He briefly ponders why she harbors these concerns, as he has not dated once since they moved here.

“She’s only interested in you because of Mom.” Piper pauses, “She asks me about her sometimes.”

Logan picks up a cloth and wipes at the already clean counter, head down.

“Like what?”

“What she was like, if I’m still sad, if I know Brad Pitt.”

“And what did you say?”

“Brad Pitt is, like, sixty, as if I would know him. Gross,” Piper deflects.

Logan laughs, then falls serious, “And what do you say about Mom?” his tone changes, reluctant to speak of the subject, as always.

“I dunno, I don’t really like talking about Mom with anyone.”

Logan understands that impulse, it is one borne entirely of his own making. If you can’t discuss your dead mother at home, how can you do it with other people?

Logan puts down the knife, “You don’t have to, you know that right?”

She nods.

He continues, “Just because Mom was famous doesn’t mean that they know her. They think they do, but they don’t. And just because she was famous doesn’t mean you’re obliged to talk about her with them either. She’s your Mom, Piper, don’t worry about what anyone else says.”

Piper doesn’t respond, so Logan stares at her and waits for an acknowledgment.

“Okay,” she says finally, putting her head down and beginning her algebra. Logan looks at it but can make no sense of the figures on the page, so much for Mr. Beckley’s riveting classes on quadratic equations.

He goes back to the stir fry, adding soy sauce, ginger, chili, cornstarch, stock and a little water. His back is turned when Piper speaks again. 

“What about you?” she says quietly, “Do you still miss her?” 

Logan faces his daughter. Life had a way of distracting them, keeping their days filled to bursting, so busy that talk of the past was infrequent. Photos of her are across all the walls, visual reminders of a different life, one they don’t speak of anymore.

Logan stops and thinks. What he doesn’t say is that he would have moments, turning on the shower, folding a sweater, starting the car, that tears would course down his cheeks unhindered. That he would limp through the day, hour by hour, then battle the nights with debilitating insomnia. But these things he won’t share, because Piper’s at an age now that asking questions about her mother might lead to _other_ questions about her mother, ones he wasn’t yet ready to address.

So he answers as simply as possible, “Of course I miss her.”

And maybe it’s because Piper knows Logan so well, or because she herself isn’t ready to talk about these things, she picks up her pencil and leaves well enough alone.

  
  
  



	3. Can't you hear me knocking?

Mac lends her another thousand dollars for the trip. Veronica promises to pay it back this time, but Mac shakes her head and calls it an investment. Veronica goes straight to the drugstore and stocks up on Keith’s pain meds, facing the usual rigmarole when purchasing opioids in bulk under someone else’s name. After the pharmacist makes the call to Keith’s doctor, it’s approved, and she walks out with a paper bag and enough drugs to last him two weeks.

Back in her car, she pulls out her phone and dials Logan’s cell again. It took her multiple favors and connections to get it, and now she wonders if the number is even still active. It rings and rings, but no one ever answers, instead defaulting to an automated voicemail service, but she doesn’t leave a message.

She drives through the morning traffic to the Balboa County Sheriff’s Department. The building is the same brick sadness, the inhabitants mostly changed, bar one. Veronica approaches the front desk, greeted by a twenty-something redhead who pretends she doesn’t recognize her.

“How can I help you, love?”

“Here to see Leo D’Amato,” Veronica says.

Redhead shuffles some papers, “Sorry, the Lieutenant is out on traffic patrol today.”

Veronica narrows her eyes, “I have a meeting scheduled.”

Redhead shuffles the same papers again, “Sorry he’s on traffic patrol.” 

Veronica picks up her phone and dials his number, she can hear the phone ringing from his office and movement through the partially opened venetian blinds. Leo picks up.

“Hey,” he says.

“I’m out the front, and your gatekeeper won’t let me through,” says Veronica.

The door to his office opens, and he sticks his head out. Veronica hangs up the phone, Leo looks at the redhead with a smile.

“It’s okay Zoe, she can come back,” he says.

Zoe releases the latch on the door to let Veronica into the inner sanctum, she heads straight for Leo’s office and closes the door. He sits back behind his desk and takes a bite of a brown paper covered sandwich, a little lettuce falls from his mouth. Veronica sits and waits for him to finish his mouthful.

“Sorry about her, she’s new,” he says.

“She’s been here at least six months, she’s on a power trip.”

“What can I say, she’s very protective of me,” he replies with a grin.

Veronica periodically floated to Leo for his ability to perform competent intercourse when required. But his major draw card was the fact that he asked no questions. He knew the score, Veronica didn’t do relationships, or cuddling, or even dinner. She’d be out of bed, putting her bra back on before the condom was off. Since Keith’s diagnosis she had done nothing but care for him, be his co-worker, be _there_. Most days she had nothing left to give. Being with Leo afforded her a seven to nine minute break to escape, maybe even have an orgasm, most often not. She first slept with him after a drunken college party and a hastily sent message to fulfill late night urges. It continued on and off until his first marriage, then resumed after his first divorce. He had recently moved onto wife number two, so they hadn’t had sex in over a year. Veronica found she didn’t miss it.

Leo takes another bite while rifling through a desk draw, taking out a green manila folder and dropping it on the table in front of Veronica.

“Your request, my dear,” he says, chewing loudly, and she wonders why she let that mouth anywhere near her own. But he owed her a favor, she’d helped him with some off-the-record surveillance and in return for her service and silence, he owed her one file.

Veronica reaches and picks it up, feeling a lot lighter than she would have expected. Opening it, she flicks through the pages.

“Where is the rest of it?”

Leo shrugs, “My guess is it’s been redacted for the family, or some of it may be classified and I’m not high enough up the food chain.”

“This is a cop killer who they have _named;_ this thing should be a foot thick.”

“Not my jurisdiction.”

“What’s been redacted?” she asks.

“How should I know?” he says.

She can see pictures of the gun in evidence, fingerprint matches, photos of the gunshot wounds, ballistics, blood test results, and photocopies of pages of statements from the officer who survived. The rest is the wrap sheet for Joseph Moyer and stills of the surveillance footage.

“Is there body camera footage?” she asks.

Leo laughs, “That was eight years ago. Even now we only have the funding for enough cameras for half of the officers out on any given day.”

Veronica makes a slight groan as she thumbs the papers.

“It’s on video, Veronica. Fingerprints. Police witness, what more do you want?”

“I want a cut and dry case, ironclad, ready to prosecute. I want so much evidence that he pleads out immediately.“

“Relax, V,” He supplicates her with a tilt of the head and she knows if he was close enough he would pat her hand, or her shoulder, “there’s more than enough to lock him up for life.”

“There better be,” she says.

“Are you really going to look for him?” Leo asks, balling up the brown paper and throwing it in the trash. Veronica ignores his question.

“Where do you think he is?” he asks, again.

She doesn’t reply. If she had to write a list of ten people she doesn’t trust with that information, Leo D’Amato would be in the top three. She stands, collecting her handbag and the file.

“Thanks for this, you’re a peach,” she shoots him a sickly sweet smile.

“You’re going to get yourself killed Veronica, if you keep pulling this shit,” he says.

“You know me, Leo, safety first,” she says, patting her handbag.

“Just be careful, and remember, you never got that file from me.”

Veronica nods.

“How’s your Dad?” he makes a final attempt to engage with her.

“How’s your wife?” she replies, before walking out the door.

* * *

Veronica’s apartment in the ‘Sun Vista Villas’ sounded idyllic, and maybe it once was. Before the communal pool turned green and developed a layer of lush vegetation, before the frogs hopped out from it at night and you had to dodge their plump, slimy bodies on the footpath in the mornings. Veronica shared a two-bedroom with Cora, a quiet middle-aged divorcee from Hawaii. She found her on Craigslist a few years ago and they coexisted well in that they rarely spoke and each kept to their designated side of the refrigerator. 

As Veronica packed a bag, Cora appeared in the doorway.

“Are you moving out?” she asks.

Veronica pauses with a pair of jeans in her hands, “No, why would you think that?”

“Because you never go anywhere. I mean, other than work,” Cora says.

Veronica shoves the jeans into the bag, grabs three shirts and two bras.

“Well, I’m only going away for a few days, I should be back by next weekend.”

Cora hovers in the doorway, watching her.

“Is your Dad okay?” she asks.

“He’s fine,” Veronica replies without looking up, a standard answer to the standard question she’s asked multiple times a week.

* * *

Duffel packed and in the trunk, Veronica drives to Mars Investigations and strides across the burgundy carpet to Keith’s office lugging bags of groceries. She unpacks the items into the cupboards and fridge.

“Dad! There’s frozen meals in the freezer. Fresh creamer and plenty of snacks,” She yells taking out the trash and replacing it with a new liner.

“Did Mac leave anything?” she asks, strolling into his office. From behind his desk Keith points to a box in the corner of the room.

“She dropped it off this morning. She said there’s maps, information, the specifics of what you need are all in there. There’s a handheld satellite GPS for coordinates too as there may not be much cell reception.”

Veronica crouches down and rifles through the box, thinking she should have packed a bigger bag. There wasn’t time to read this all before the flight, she’d have to go through it when she got there. 

Keith’s hands are steepled, watching her, and she’s making every effort not to make eye contact. She knows he’s making the face, and she hates the face, especially now on his skinny frame.

“One last time. I just want this on the record that I think this is a bad idea,” he says.

“Duly noted.”

“Call me if you need anything. Leave your GPS on your phone at all times. Report back daily so I know where you are.”

Veronica picks up the GPS unit, black with orange rubber casing. She presses a button and it makes an offensive screeching noise and a jumble of numbers appear on the screen. 

“Veronica.”

“Yes.”

He pauses, waiting for her to look up at him, _forcing_ her to look at him. She breathes in through her nose. 

“Be careful.”

She nods, bends in half and picks up the box, resting it on her jean-clad hip.

“Call Duc next door if you need any help; Cliff said you could call him too.” 

She doesn’t tell him that she has a roster of helpers to come by each morning and evening to check on him. Keith had been in that wheelchair for almost twelve years now, he was quite capable of getting himself around, as proved by the black scrape marks on every single wall and hallway in the building. He had long ago mastered the art of pulling himself into the driver’s seat, then pulling his chair behind him. But as the new cancer went untreated, and those tumors spread inside him, he deteriorated more each day.

Veronica walks to the door, stops and turns. She doesn’t hug him, too scared to feel his bones beneath her fingertips, but she wants to.

Instead, she says, “Love you, dad.”

He smiles like it hurts his face and she’s hit with the fear she has every time she leaves this office. The fear rises up through her intestines like a taloned claw, it explodes out of her chest and clutches her throat. What if she comes back, and it’s too late, he’s gone? She could hold vigil by his side forever but it wouldn’t change fate, only money could do that, she _had_ to go.

“I love you, Veronica, always,” he says.

She picks up her bag and leaves through the back door.

* * *

The cheapest flight Veronica can find takes her from San Diego to Salt Lake City. There she has a three-hour layover in which she falls asleep reading maps on the hard plastic chairs with an open packet of chips teetering in her hand. From Salt Lake she flies to Billings. The view from her window seat is her first ever sight of Montana. Mountains and rivers scar the landscape like veins. As soon as the peaks flatten, the square fields begin, each a slightly different shade from green to warm yellows.

Luggage collected, she rents a small blue SUV and drives the hour to Red Lodge. A single main street, dotted with red brick buildings, cafes, an old-school barber, a bakery and one grocery store, a dozen or so tree-lined residential streets forking off. With the beginnings of the mountains in the distance, it was so small-town America it could be a movie set. Originally a coal mining town, it now survives off a steady flow of tourism, gateway to the slopes in winter, easy access to Yellowstone in the summer. There are four hotel offerings to choose from, the Best Western at $88 a night is the clear winner. Checking-in, she’s comforted by the inherent beigeness of the place. 

“Are you here for the trout fishing festival?” the clerk whose name tag reads Vivian asks as she taps away on keys.

Veronica pauses, unsure if it’s weirder for her to be there for the trout fishing or hunting a fugitive.

“Um, no, just here to visit an old friend,” she says and then suddenly is unsure if that is a worse answer, leading to more questions.

“Oh, lovely. Make sure you stop by the historical society. They do tours on Tuesdays, Thursdays and the weekend. My Uncle Jim runs the place, tell him I sent you. It sure is the best thing to do in town. That is, of course, other than the mountains. They are just the best. If you’re not into fishing, there’s walks, treks, camping trips...” Vivian goes on.

“Thanks, I’ll be sure to check it out.”

Vivian hands Veronica the key and she takes one flight of stairs up to room 112.

* * *

Surrounded by a dinner of vending machine fodder, a can of Pepsi and a half eaten Snickers bar, Veronica sits amongst seventeen pieces of paper and four photographs from the Moyer file. She buries herself in Joseph Moyer’s life and criminal history. 

Second of four brothers, petty theft at thirteen, grand theft auto by seventeen, incarcerated at twenty where he then spent the next thirty years in and out of jail. His final stint was eight years for an armed robbery at a gas station. He was released from prison seventeen days prior to the police shooting in Burbank. _Seventeen days._ She wonders why, after finally getting out, someone would commit another crime so soon. It made sense if he wanted to go back to jail. He’d spent the better part of thirty years inside. A lifetime, almost as long as her own. Many people can’t cope with going back to the real world. But Moyer didn’t go back to jail, he ran.

Veronica looks for any link between the officers and Moyer, thinking of a possible vendetta, but Moyer’s prison records show not one visit or call while he was incarcerated other than his lawyers. She makes a note to Mac to match the police officer’s names and family members against prison employment records.

Frustrated with the lack of anything helpful in the file she turns to Google and scans through each news article she can find on the shooting. She finds the obituary of the Sheriff’s Deputies that were involved. Juan Gutierrez was killed, a father of two, married. He had only been working in the force for two years. Rhys Arnold lived after four days in hospital, a bullet wound to the right shoulder. He was single, still serving in the force and promoted to the Gang and Narcotics division.

A further flick of the page and she finds the surveillance footage released to the public, pleading for information. There’s no sound, just the black and white staggered frames of a patrol car in the dark. Another frame shows a man sitting by the coffee shop, much like Mickey sits beside her own office. His legs are outstretched, waiting, or sleeping, it’s hard to tell. Something seems to rouse him and he stands and walks out of frame. The next shows a man approaching the vehicle, the tinted windows and the darkness make it difficult to see inside. He stands beside the car for three minutes; he appears to be talking to them. Then, he reaches inside the car, clearly visible is a pistol in his hand, the next frame has him running from the scene. The footage then switches to two other surveillance cameras, further down the street, showing Moyer running.

She holds up the picture of the pistol again, an OZ Standard 9mm, the serial numbers scratched off. Veronica takes photos of each page of the file and sends them to Mac for her opinion.

Shuffling the papers into a neat pile she places them on the side table and watches half an hour of The Rockford Files reruns before growing restless.

She opens her laptop and types into the search bar.

_Logan Echolls._

263,000 results.

She trolls his Wikipedia page for any pertinent information, any nuggets about him that might help her tomorrow, but she reads nothing she doesn’t already know. 

Veronica summarizes out loud, “Okay. Rich boy (33), married Lilly Kane 2005 - 2015 (deceased), parents Aaron Echolls (deceased) and Lynn Echolls (57). Children, one, Piper Echolls (15).” Lives and deaths summarized and simplified in parentheses. 

There is a photo of Logan and Lilly at a premiere, Lilly wears a coral low-cut dress, fanning out dramatically onto the red carpet. Logan stands to the right in a black tuxedo, holding her sparkling clutch. Cropped hair and intense brown eyes, his lips curl in the smallest of grins, looking directly into the camera. Veronica’s probably seen this photo before as she flipped through magazines at one of Keith’s countless appointments, but seeing it now, she feels a curl of anticipation with a side of dread. 

Picking up her phone she calls his cell again, she listens to it ring as he watches her from the laptop screen. But again, there is no answer. She’s about to hang up but at the last minute, she leaves a message. It’s awkward and a little unclear and she instantly regrets it.

Veronica shuts the laptop so those brown eyes won’t keep looking at her, brushes her teeth, strips down to her underwear. She slips bare legs between crisp white sheets, turns off the light and squeezes her eyes shut.

* * *

It’s late. Logan sat up reading until his eyes blurred in the lamplight. He makes his way towards bed, noticing the crack of light from Piper’s bedroom. He knocks twice and waits for her reply.

“Come in.”

He sticks his head in the door, Piper rests the thick open novel on her bedsheets, the two dogs, Chelsea and Poppet, take up the space on the far side of her queen bed. They acknowledge him with a brief flicker of tail movement.

“Night,” he says.

“Night Dad,” she says, picking back up the wad of papers and delving back into the words.

He pads down the long hallway, goes in his room, closes the door. All is quiet. The silence when he first came here was overwhelming. After years in LA, there is always background noise, like TV static on a constant loop. But here, no cars, sleeping birds, pitch black nothing. He finds comfort in it now. 

He brushes his teeth, strips off all his clothes but his boxers and glances at his phone, sitting on charge.

Two more unlisted calls. 

1 voicemail.

He dials the voicemail and listens.

“Hi, ummm, Logan, I’m not sure if this is even your number. This is um, Veronica Mars, from Neptune High. Can you give me a call please, I need to speak to you. My number is 584 877-7210. Umm, thanks. Bye.”

Logan listens to it again.

The silence disappears, replaced with the increased soft thumps of his heart reverberating through to his ears. He stares at the phone, 11:23pm. Too late to call, too late to find out what in the world Veronica Mars could possibly want.

Logan slips bare legs between crisp white sheets, turns off the light and squeezes his eyes shut.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to Aurora2020 for her spectacular beta assistance. 💜


	4. Walking on Broken Glass

The hotel lobby bears a resemblance to her accountant’s waiting room. Small and pokey with a hard leather couch and a dusty plastic ficus. Veronica helps herself to the terrible coffee and free breakfast, of which the options are glazed donuts, or glazed donuts.

Balancing breakfast on a napkin on her knee, she dials his number. Nine rings. No answer. She dials the number immediately again. It’s four rings this time before she hears his voice.

“You’ve been gone,” Keith calculates, “nineteen hours Veronica, surely you can get to twenty-four without me?”

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“I answered the phone, didn’t I?”

She sighs.

“How was your flight?”

“Fine.”

“Have you spoken to Logan yet?”

“No, I’ll go there this afternoon.”

“How’s that going to play out?” he asks.

“Jury's out.”

“Have you got a game plan?”

“I’m going for a little improv,” she says.

He makes a sound that's almost a laugh, “Well, good luck.”

They both fall silent, listening to the nothingness between them. It’s a push and pull. Veronica wants to hear him breathing, feels helpless when she isn’t there, when she can’t just pop her head into his office, the visual of him slowly working a strange comfort.

“Are you going to call me every six hours?” Keith asks.

“Maybe.”

“Okay, well I better get some work done before my next check-up,” his words are jovial but his tone is dry.

Veronica can hear the bell on their front door chime, the squeak of it opening and closing.

“Oh, well, whaddya know, Cliff just happens to have come by with a brown bag and what looks to be breakfast for me,” says Keith, even dryer.

Veronica smiles.

“Isn’t that fortuitous?” says Veronica.

Keith huffs and grumbles.

“Goodbye, Veronica.”

“Bye, Dad.”

She hangs up, takes a bite of the donut, wipes the crystallized sugar from the corner of her mouth and walks up to the counter.

Vivian’s fingernails are purple and so long it’s surprising that she can connect with the correct keys at all. Veronica watches her while picking at her own nails, unadorned and bitten to the quick. 

“Hey love, what can I help you with?” Vivian says. Her brown hair is pulled tight into a bun close to her hairline and a chewed yellow pencil sits in the nest. A silver cross hangs from her neck.

“You mentioned your Uncle runs the historical society. Are you a local here?”

“You betcha! Born and bred. There’s nothing about this place that I don’t know,” she says with pride. Vivian is one of those mythical pure-of-heart patriots who truly believe that their hometown is a glowing wonderland. She adds a side of optimism and Jesus to her cereal each morning. Both of which Veronica can’t comprehend.

“I’m looking for a man named Ted Stojanovski, he used to run the hardware store,” Veronica says, about to elaborate further before Vivian interrupts her.

“Oh, poor Ted, he ran the Red Lodge Hardware and Huntin’ store for thirty-five years, he did, and he had to close it down just last year. Poor thing. He did everything he could to try and save it, but people don’t just want one shovel, they wanna choose between five shovels, and they only wanna pay ten dollars for a shovel. You can’t make money selling shovels, no, no. Not when you can just head on up to Billings for the weekly shop and pay half the amount of money. Or order it on the computer and have it at your door in three days.”

Veronica stares at her, lets Vivian take a breath.

“Ted works in the Family Dollar grocery now, stackin’ shelves, probably only makes twelve dollars an hour, poor thing, and he’s only there a few days a week. His wife,she died a while back, had no kids. She used to make the most incredible crochet blankets, used to sell them at the market on a Sunday, and she used to make a pretty penny doing that too. Everyone here in Red Lodge has one of Marion’s blankets in their house, no doubt.”

Veronica cuts in quickly and asks the most direct question she can.

“Where is the Family Dollar?”

Vivian pulls the pencil out of her bun, reaches below the desk for a black and white photocopy of a town map, she draws some lines and arrows.

“You go up this street here, make a left onto main street, go past the nail salon and the ice-cream store and it’s on the right. I don’t know if Ted will be working today, but you can try.”

“Thanks.”

“Is Ted your friend?” Vivian asks.

“What?”

“The friend you said you’re visiting in Red Lodge, is it Ted?”

“Oh, no. Just hoping he can help with something.”

“Oh, rightio then, have a good day.”

Veronica goes to leave, to get away from any further chance at being talked at, but she stops and Vivian snaps her head back up.

“Do you know Logan Echolls?” Veronica asks.

Vivian’s right eyebrow cocks just slightly and she leans in towards Veronica.

“Why? Whattya know?”

“Oh, I don’t know anything, I just heard he lives around here,” says Veronica. 

Vivian stands straight again, disappointed that she’s not about to discover any juicy gossip, opens her mouth and begins.

“Yeah, he’s around. He’s out at Rock Creek Ranch, biggest ranch in these parts. Took it over from the Jeffersons when they’d had enough. Oh, it’s a nice spread up there, I hear it has nine bedrooms, but I ain’t seen it for myself. Who's got time to clean all those rooms? ‘Spose he’s got a cleaner? His daughter goes to the High School. He doesn’t go out in the community much, I’ve never seen him at church or bible study. I’ve seen him at the post office before, and once at the hairdressers. My friend Carla, she saw him once at the local bar with his daughter, pretty little thing. Apparently he ordered the T-Bone, which is just the best thing on the menu if you happen to go down to the Dusty’s Grill. Poor guy, he’s had a bad run and I think he’s just here trying to get away. Everyone’s always talkin’ about him when he goes out, mind you. Not surprised he wants to hide. I don’t listen to what they all say about him, and all that speculatin’ in the magazines, I think he’s a nice guy.”

Veronica stands, eyes wide, trying to comprehend the mouthful she was just dealt. Vivian just smiles.

The phone in her hand alerts her to a message, she points to it and uses it as an excuse to retreat.

Standing beside the plastic ficus, she sees it’s a voicemail and her heart rate ups a few beats per minute. She dials through, waits for the message to replay.

It’s not him. She expels a breath.

Its Mac, probing for a status report, of which there is none to deliver.

Yet. 

* * *

The streets are glaringly clean, every fifty feet there is a wooden park bench with a memorial, from storefront roofs hang pristine American flags. There are no used syringes or baggy pantsed meth heads pissing in the gutters. Veronica’s lungs fill with mountain oxygen, pure and crisp, and it feels good. She thinks the Neptune town planners need to schedule a visit.

Veronica follows Vivian’s directions, and she’s at the Family Dollar before finishing her coffee. In an attempt to avoid seeking out management, she takes a basket, throws in a chocolate bar, a bag of peanuts and wanders the aisles pretending to browse. It’s the usual small five-aisle establishment with prices double what you’d pay at Walmart. She eyeballs nametags on limp green vests worn by apathetic sixteen-year-olds. In aisle four beside the diapers, she finds a short man with jet black hair stacking baby wipes. He’s half a century older than the rest of the employees. 

Jackpot.

“Ted?”

He turns and looks at her blankly.

“Hi, I’m Veronica Mars, are you the Ted who owned Hardware and Hunting on Main Street?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m a Private Investigator looking into the file of Stephen Moyer. Was it you who submitted the security camera footage for evidence?”

“Oh, well, yes, that was me. That was a few years back now.”

“Can you tell me anything about it? What did he buy? Was that the only time you saw him?”

Tim looks to the fluorescent lights, thinking. An elderly woman walks by in a shuffle, her house-shoes squeaking on the polished linoleum.

“Well, I told the police all this, but he came in about three times, I think,” he says, rubbing the five o-clock shadow that heavy beard growers have by lunchtime, the stubble crunches beneath his fingertips. Veronica rifles through her bag and passes him a photo still from the footage, hoping to jog his memory.

“I’d seen him before, but I can’t really remember what he was buying. That day he came into the store to buy a few things, some nails, a pickaxe, some shotgun shells, 12 gauge.”

“Did you take ID for the ammunition?” she asks.

“No. Anyone can buy ammunition in Montana, you don’t need an ID or license.”

“What made you report him?”

"He was quiet, a bit of a weird type, wearing a real big jacket and kept his head down, mostly. Didn’t say two words to me. He looked familiar, so I asked him if I knew him from my old high school. He shook his head, dropped the cash on the table and practically ran out of the store. Then, later I realized I’d seen his face on that Most Wanted show that Marion made me watch every Tuesday. I looked it up on the internet, about how he murdered that policeman, I went back through the security footage and thought I should phone it in.”

“After you did that, did he ever come back to the store?”

“Nope,” he says, picking up baby-wipes, placing them on the shelf, a swift glance in either direction for a manager.

“Did you see how he got to the store? Did he come in a car, a truck?”

“I didn’t. But Martha up at the post office said he comes on horseback.”

“On _horseback_ ? _Into_ the town?”

Ted nods, “It happens sometimes. Not completely out of the ordinary. There’s a tie-up for horses on 4th street.”

Veronica muses, a horse made sense. From the satellite photos she’d studied, she couldn’t find any trace of tire tracks. If there were no roads to his land, a horse was a logical option for him to access the property and get supplies.

She thanks Ted, who responds with a smile and pierces the lid of a box of pacifiers with an open pair of scissors.

  
  


* * *

Veronica stalled. She’d spoken to Ted, been to the county offices to find zoning maps, read front to back a year-old magazine called _Distinctly Montana_ in a coffee shop _._ It included a four-page recount of a grizzly bear attack that reeled her in and left her horrified.

After a slow walk back to the hotel, she snuck by Vivian while a man was checking in. She lay on the bed for twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling before showering. She lets the hot water run as she undresses, standing naked and watching the steam creep the mirror until she eventually disappears.

Changing into fresh jeans and her nicest shirt she brushes her hair and scrunches the ends to encourage a natural wave. An application of mascara and nude lipstick signals an end to her transformation.

It was time.

* * *

The road carries her away from Red Lodge following the soothing directions of the rental’s GPS. 

“In 400 feet, please turn right,” says a non-threatening British actor. 

“At the intersection, continue straight.”

It all seems to be going well until the bitumen turns to gravel somewhere down East Springbrook Lane. Veronica slows the car to a stop, looking up and down fences across the hills. On one side, a yellow crop stands to attention, like an army of soldiers, swaying in formation in the warm breeze. On the other, cows pull their heads up and stare at her, long eyelashes blinking, sensing an intruder in their midst.

Mac’s maps were unreadable with their overlapping sharpie lines so she unfolds the rental’s map and checks her location. She considers turning back, but knows that this will have to happen, eventually. If she _really_ wants to find Stephen Moyer, if she _really_ wants to help her dad, first she needs to find Logan Echolls.

Throwing the map down on the passenger seat, she pulls back out onto the lane. Another few miles and there it is, a rusty metal sign reading Rock Creek Ranch, beside it a No Trespassing sign, in bold red.

She proceeds despite the warning.

* * *

Is it circumstances, luck, good or bad that drives your life in one direction over another? Is it God’s will? God’s punishment? Mother Nature? Blind luck? 

When Veronica pulls down the mile long drive and into Logan Echolls’ circular driveway flanking his enormous estate, she asks herself these questions. They went to the same school, ate at the same cafeteria, had the same shitty second rate teachers, and yet here they were. The dichotomy of their lives was staggering. Logan Echolls, living in an expansive ranch flanked by the Beartooth mountains and what she could only assume was a well-stocked trout pond on the east. Veronica Mars, seven hundred and thirteen dollars in her handbag, every cent of it borrowed.

Pulling the handbrake, she peers out the windows to a sprawling log house. Two stories, with varying roof pitches, she counts nine windows to the left and four to the right. Each of the walls are broken up with wide stone fireplaces reaching into the blue sky. The ranch sits atop a slight rise, nothing but undulating crops and cows between her and the nearest town. A pair of dogs run towards the car, barking wildly. Veronica pulls down the mirror and checks her reflection, she reapplies lipstick on bitten lips, fluffs her hair again. Grabbing her bag, she opens the door and all the canines descend on her with excitement.

One dog is a beagle, the other resembles a piece of white lint. The piece of lint barks furiously at Veronica’s ankles. She extends an outstretched hand, they tentatively lick her fingers with wet pink tongues. Satisfied with their assessment of her, they lead her up the stairs to the vast veranda that laps the entire dwelling and collapse upon their beds. A potted marigold in full bloom sits by the entrance and a set of Keds, very much like her own, laces undone beside it. 

The huge oak front door is open, a screen door the only thing keeping her out. In the absence of a doorbell she knocks on it as loud as she can, then lays a palm atop a plank of wood that forms the walls. It’s cool to the touch, even in the afternoon heat, weathered flecked greys and browns.

Through the open screen door, Veronica can see down a long hallway, past a hall stand, glimpsing what she assumes is the corner of a large kitchen. She hears the murmur of voices silenced by her knock, and then quiet footsteps growing closer. 

She doesn’t get nervous anymore. So attune to dealing with most situations on her own she seems to have blocked the emotion from her body. But yesterday, getting on the plane from Salt Lake to Billings, there was a small tingle, sitting just below her sternum. She brushed it away as a symptom of eating a lukewarm ham sandwich on the previous flight. But today, that tingle had grown, and now, listening to those footsteps, the tingle wraps her torso and constricts.

A shadow appears, the closer it comes it morphs into Logan Echolls, unmistakably him. The boy she remembered was decidedly more gangly, a typical California boy bejeweled with puka shells and oversized cargo pants swinging in her memory from a tree limb. This Logan was older, thirty-three now, same as her. His hair a little longer, pushed back. Jaw covered with stubble, a few grey hairs lingered amongst them. Tanned and rough, he bears scant resemblance to the preened man in a penguin suit she saw in photos last night, or the ones that used to be plastered across the tabloids at her local gas station. He’s wearing jeans and a blue and red checkered button down with socks.

She pulls at her shirt, straightens her shoulders and tries for what she remembers a warm smile to be, mimicking characters from movies and television. She knows how it’s supposed to look, but the undertaking itself seems arduous. From Logan’s reaction, the desired result falls well short of expectations. 

He cranes his head to the side, observing her, perplexed. Veronica’s glad for the screen door, it dampens the possibility of a close assessment of her, like maybe he can’t see the haggard lines of her eyes through the cross hatch of mesh, the way her cheeks hollow and shadow, even in the best light. 

But he sees her, eyes like a summer storm. 

“I’m sorry, were the No Trespassing signs unclear?” he says sharply.

“They were not, I saw four, they kept getting bigger as I drove.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“I thought they were more of a guide.”

“What do you want, Veronica? Why are you calling me, why are you _here?”_ he asks from safely behind his screen.

“Can’t an old high school acquaintance come around for a chat?”

“Acquaintance?” he laughs, but it’s not a friendly laugh, “What are you doing at my house, in _Montana_?” he squints his eyes, like the synapses have stopped firing and he’s trying to restart them.

Logan leans forward and gazes out the door and down the drive, Veronica suspects he’s looking for some kind of Candid-Camera or Punk’d crew. 

“I’m hoping you can help with something,” she says.

“What the hell can _I_ help you with?” his tone is dismissive, but he doesn’t move away like you would a random pesky door-knocker. He stays in his place. 

“I am a PI and I’m looking for some…” she starts, but he cuts her off mid-sentence.

“You’re still working as a PI?” he scrunches his brow and she tries very hard not to punch him in the face. Quips about her lack of career progression hit hard and make her want to hit harder. 

“Yep,” she replies, clipped, “as I was saying, I’m trying to find someone and I really need your help.” While she speaks, she takes a hesitant step toward the door. This causes his body language to match the evasiveness of his voice. He steps forward, blocking any path into his house. 

“Veronica, get off my doorstep, get off my property,” he draws a deep breath as though he wants to say more, but is holding it in.

“Logan, what happened, it wasn’t me, you need to understand. I had nothing to do…”

He cuts her off, sighing deeply. 

“Fuck off, Veronica.”

With a flick of his wrist the heavy door slams with an almighty thud before her. Their one minute conversation passed like a car accident, that moment of elastic time that is both sheer speed and warped slowness. The intensity stretches the elasticity to a breaking point, and with a snap, she’s propelled back into the present. The present where Veronica stands staring at the woodgrain, hearing his socked feet retreat.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to my beta reader Aurora2020 for asking all the hard questions and getting this ship-shape.


	5. Sixteen Going On Thirty Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings for this chapter:  
> Brief mention of Child Abuse / Mention of Sexual Abuse

With the harsh thud of the door, and Logan’s brisk steps, Piper asks, “Who was that?”

“Nobody,” he replies, clipped, swallowing back the tone that just escaped his throat when speaking to Veronica. His head spun with her there, right there, knowing she was standing on his porch, her car in his driveway. 

In _Montana._

“It didn’t sound like nobody,” she looks at him, eyebrows raised, “Dad, who is she? If you don’t tell me, I’ll just go out there and ask her.”

Logan spins on the spot, “You will not,” he pauses, “Her name is Veronica, Veronica Mars. We went to school together.”

“Clearly you weren’t best friends?”

“You know what, I don’t want to talk about this, Piper. I asked her to leave, it’s over now.” 

Years he’s spent training himself in calm indifference, in suppressing those feelings when they come bubbling up. How many sessions of court-ordered anger management did it take to stomp down those ticks of rage when they flare? 

In Montana, on his ranch, he felt in control, but it floats away with one bite from his past.

Walking to the back door, Piper follows him, doggedly, continuing with her questions. He’s a closed book, a mystery novel she can’t solve because he never gives out a single clue, and suddenly today, she’s thrown a tiny morsel and she pounces on it.

“You don’t speak like that to just anyone, you clearly had a past, what happened? Did she know mom?” Piper asks, clinging to any scrap about her mother she can find.

Logan stops and takes steady breaths, “I’m sorry Piper, I just can’t talk about this right now. I’m going to the stables,” he says, walking to the back door, sitting down on the stool, pulling his boots on roughly. He’s trying to grip them, pull them over socked feet, but they’re tight and his hands are shaking.

He’s not stupid, she’s a teen with access to the internet. She must know about the past, surely. About Aaron, about Lilly, about him. But if she does, she has never mentioned it to him or asked him about it. It had been years here now, the two of them nestling into the closest thing to anonymity. They built their bubble, stayed within its walls, and Veronica Mars of all people was the one to pop it.

He needed to find calm; he knew he could find it in the horses. Saddle up, gallop as fast as his horse would take him, feel the mountain air in his lungs. 

Piper outstretches a hand, laying it on his shoulder, “Dad, are you okay?” she asks, concern lacing her tone. 

“I’m fine,” he places his large hand on hers, “I just need a breath. Seeing her _here,_ just took me a little by surprise.”

"Dad, was she a friend once?"

He nods.

"Maybe you should talk to her, hear what she has to say? She's come a long way." She says, fifteen years old and with more wisdom than he ever possessed. 

Logan kisses Pipers head as she releases his shoulder and he walks into the yard. 

The fresh air on his face calms him, bringing him into the present, bringing him back from the train wreck that just unfolded on his front porch. From the words he said, the anger that he was so certain had dissipated after all these years that erupted from within, catching him by surprise. Sure, she called first, but that was a call, a voicemail, nine seconds of voice separated by what he thought was twelve hundred miles. As it turns out, it was significantly less. Only a matter of feet separated them, and those feet made all of the compressed past, come tumbling back.

In between his long strides, he hears the beat of feet on the gravel behind him.

“Piper, just leave it,” he sighs, turning.

But it’s not Piper, it’s Veronica.

“Logan,” she starts.

“Are you kidding me?”

“You need to hear me, Logan. You didn’t listen to me in high school. Whatever. You were going through a lot so I left you alone, but I need you to know this now.”

He turns and starts walking away, his stride long, moving toward the stables. Of course she’s still on his heels, brisk feet to keep up. Unlocking the gate and walking inside, a few long faces appear in unison out of the stable doors, roused by the sound of their owner, the sound of potential food. 

“I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again, it wasn’t me,” she says.

Logan stops, turns towards her, a foot separates them. Veronica’s cheeks are tinged pink, she’s breathing heavily from running to catch him, her eyes are pleading with him to hear her, and he wants to hear her, he does. He just doesn’t know how it will fix the past.

* * *

  
  


_It was third period journalism class that he first noticed her. She wore her hair down and long on a Tuesday, in braids on a Thursday. She would play with the ends, flicking them back and forth in her fingers as Miss Davies spoke. Veronica was smart, always a step ahead of the others in the class, including Logan. She wasn’t popular; she didn’t stand out. She was short, snappy and occasionally awkward. Her sole claim to fame in the highschool hierarchy was that she was the Sheriff’s daughter, which earned her a fair amount of distanced respect. Fear of fatherly retribution for bullying is one thing, receiving it from the Sheriff was another thing entirely._

_He wanted to talk to her, to ask her a question, but he didn’t know how to broach it with her. Regular nights he’d spent mulling his plan over in his mind, but the time to strike was approaching and he didn’t want to delay any further._

_He first spoke to her in the winter, in a year of strangely heightened seasons. Where Neptune saw days of rain, and a battering of cool winds that blew down from the North, rendering Californians searching for warmer jackets. She was sitting in the quad, at a table by herself, not eating her pizza square and picking at her baby carrots. Logan approached, sliding onto the seat beside her._

_“I hear you’re a regular Nancy Drew?”_

_She looked at him, a crease in her brow, unsure why Logan Echolls, an ‘09er, was speaking to her._

_“If you’re hearing things about me, I should probably be worried.”_

_“You help your Dad, right? With surveillance and stuff?”_

_“I’m hardly on the force. Sure, I do my homework at the department, sometimes help out with some line up photos when they’re in a bind,” she took a sip of her soda._

_“I hear you helped Scott Gooding find his brother?”_

_Veronica didn’t admit to anything, rolling her hand over, “Get to your point, Echolls.”_

_“I have a proposition for you, Nancy,” he waggled his eyebrows._

_“Sounds dubious. Especially coming from you.”_

_“Fear not. I come to seek your services.”_

_“Now I’m really worried.”_

_“I need some surveillance.”_

_“From me?”_

_“Yeah, why not, you’ve got the fancy camera and I think you’ve secretly got the skills.”_

_He’d been thinking about hiring an actual PI for this task, however the fact that it gave him a reason to talk to Veronica Mars was reason enough._

_“Pray tell, what do you want surveilled?”_

_“Well, that’s where things become a tad tricky,” he leaned in close, whispering, “It’s my Dad.”_

_“Aaron Echolls? The Aaron Echolls?” she eyed him speculatively._

_He nodded, matter of fact._

_“Why?”_

_“Because the Aaron Echolls is not all that he seems. I believe that he partakes in certain… late night activities with various females of which he isn’t married to, and I need photographic proof.”_

_“Gross.”_

_“True.”_

_“What are you going to do with the pictures?”_

_“My Mom knows this is happening, I think at least subconsciously she’s aware, but she refuses to acknowledge it. I think if she has physical, undeniable evidence before her she will leave that sack of shit,” he rubbed the spot on his shoulder, the spot where just last week the sharp edge of his staircase met skin, hard. The spot his father held him down, knee pressed into his ribcage until his skin blackened and bruised._

_Veronica pushed out her tray, swung a leg over her chair, “Yeah, sorry. That’s a no from me.” Slinging her backpack on her shoulder, she began to walk away, but Logan was fast, catching her in seconds, leaning close again._

_“Does five hundred sweeten the deal?” She stopped mid-walk, and he continued, “That’s for the surveillance, you get good, clear photos of him in flagrante , then a two hundred bonus.”_

_She crossed her arms, “Why would you pay me that?”_

_“Because the rate for a real PI would be at least double that. You get my cash and I save money. Win-Win. I may be a rich boy, but my frugality surprises some.”_

_“Don’t want to blow the entire trust fund at once?” she teased._

_“It’s all about pacing,” he winked._

_“Sorry, I’ve got bio homework, I’ve signed up for the Model United Nations, I’m kinda short on spare time. You’ll have to spend your bucks on a real PI, I hear Vinnie Van Lowe is terrible, feel free to see him.”_

_She shot him a Broadway smile and departed towards the gymnasium._

* * *

  
  


_It was the LeBaron’s fault._

_Two weeks later the incessant clunking had morphed into a screeched groan each time she turned the wheel._

_She found Logan beside his locker with an armful of classic literature, Edgar Allan Poe resting on top, “Okay, I’ll do it for six hundred. But I’ll only commit to four nights, I’m sixteen, I can only get away with so much evening absence without the raising of alarm bells.”_

_“Well, well, well, whatever made you change your mind? Was it my freshly frosted tips?” he closed the locker door, resting the side of his head against the yellow paint, brown eyes teasing._

_“As tempting as your tips may be, a set of new ball joints on the LeBaron will set me back 350, plus labor. I’m lacking access to a trust fund such as your own, so I’m kind of in a bind.”_

_“Sheriff Mars won’t spring for repairs?” he pouted._

_“The Sheriff sprung for a new set of spark plugs and brake pads last month. I was advised if I required any further repairs, I would best be seeking out employment.”_

_“Ahhh, so this is me, hiring you as an employee then?”_

_Veronica shook her head, rolled her eyes, “Lets not get ahead of ourselves.”_

* * *

_Lynn Echolls was in Madrid for six weeks, filming a supporting role in a medium-budget thriller. There were only two more weeks left before she returned, the time gap quickly closing. Trina was in LA reading for any role available for a female under 21. Logan told Aaron that he was staying at Duncan’s. Aaron thought he was all alone._

_Logan gave Veronica a rudimentary map of the property, including suggested places for observation. He placed a ladder against a vine, behind an old magnolia. He marked a spot on the fence with an x. A spot he has used frequently himself, climbing in and out at a whim, a place with an easy footing on the roadside. His very own secret entry._

_The first Saturday Veronica sat perched in the low branches of a tree to the right of the pool house. It gave her a good vantage point of the pool and through the windows into the lounge and kitchen. The leaves were waxy and wide, forming a canopy, allowing her to shrink from view, and there it was darker, away from the hundreds of carefully placed spotlights. Inside the house all the lights were on, the pool was lit to a sparkling blue as she watched Aaron at the kitchen counter, slicing something._

_Digging the camera from her bag, she played with the zoom, taking a series of test shots. From her viewfinder she could see that he was finely slicing tuna, dipping it into a bowl. She pulled down the lens, snuggling her backside into a v-shaped wedge in the branches, and settled in for his tuna-eating guest to arrive._

_She sat for fifteen minutes before she could hear the hum of the electronic gate behind her opening up. The gentle rounding of tires and a flash of headlights. Alerted to an arrival, Aaron departed from view. She took a bag of gummy bears from her bag and popped one in her mouth, her legs swinging back and forth, waiting._

_When a hand grabbed her foot, she nearly fell. She swiveled around to spot Logan beneath her, eyes looking up from the brush._

_“You’re lucky I didn’t kick you in the head,” she growled, heart racing._

_“There’s still time,” he stood right in her shoe line, kicked up a knee, pressed on his left thigh, propelling himself onto the branch beside her._

_“What are you doing here?”_

_He shrugged, “Came to check out the action.”_

_“I don’t need an assistant.”_

_“I know, Duncan was boring the shit out of me, so I bailed.”_

_“Well, go to Dick’s or something.”_

_“Nah, this is more fun,” he said, “I’m guessing nothing yet?”_

_“Preparing food is the highlight of the evening so far, but someone’s just arrived.”_

_He picked at the tree branch for a while, a collection of bark fragments piled in his hand before letting them fall to the ground with an open palm._

_Veronica kept her eyes on the kitchen, watched Aaron reappear with a tall brunette. She wore a crimson bodycon dress, matching pumps. Her hair was big and high, like a soap opera star. Veronica pulled the viewfinder to her eye and snapped away furiously._

_“Who’s that? Do you know her?” she asked._

_“That’s Annette, she’s his manager’s ex-wife," said Logan peering through the leaf canopy, watching Aaron with narrowed eyes and set jawline._

_“Do you think he’s sleeping with her?”_

_Logan reached for her bag of gummy bears and laughed with contempt, “Of course he’s sleeping with her, he’s sleeping with everyone,” he said, taking a fistful from the packet._

_“Maybe they’re just having dinner?”_

_“Maybe they’re just having dinner before they fuck?” The way he said it was crass and harsh and Veronica turned her head back to the scene. She felt like James Stewart in Rear Window , equal measures excited and terrified of what she might see behind those pristine glass panes._

_Aaron poured Annette a glass of white wine, they clinked glasses; he resumed his position prepping the tuna. His guest attempted to sit on the stool gracefully, but she was thwarted by the tightness of her dress, and simply settled onto the side._

_“Are all famous people like this?” Veronica asked._

_“Like what? Human scum? Pretty much.”_

_“Do they all cheat?”_

_“Best I can tell,” Logan spoke with the kind of jaded lethargy that could only come with a life of being surrounded by fame. Veronica couldn’t even comprehend his existence in the spotlight. His father and his mother, being recognized down the street, known from birth, every bar they went to, every time they pumped gas, people always watching._

_“If we can get photos, do you think your Mom will really leave him?”_

_Logan played with his puka shells, rubbing them between a thumb and forefinger as he spoke, “He has conditioned my mom to this kind of behavior for years. He gaslights her, telling her she’s imagining things, conjuring relationships that aren’t there, then turns the tables and says she’s cheating. She is convinced that she’s the crazy one. But if I come to her with real, physical, touchable proof, I think she will leave. I hope so, anyway.” He opened his mouth, as if he was going to say something else, but hesitated, closing it again._

_Veronica snapped more photos while Aaron fed Annette off a fork. The display reassured her that this would be easy money._

_They couldn’t hear the exchange, but Veronica could imagine the sound of Annette’s giggle. Throwing her head back, red lipsticked mouth open in an o, Logan’s eyes narrowed as Aaron mercilessly flirted back with her._

_“Shouldn’t you be hanging with your girlfriend instead of bothering me?” Veronica tried to get rid of him. Watching his father cheat in real-time was hardly a good idea._

_“If you’re referring to Lilly, she is not my girlfriend.”_

_“Sure looks like it,” she said, not taking her eyes from the viewfinder._

_“She’s just my best friend’s sister. She hangs around here when Duncan comes over, likes to lie by the pool, says mine is bigger, something about better afternoon light.”_

_Veronica laughed, baffled by how clueless boys could be, “Yeah, that means she’s into you.”_

_Even through the viewfinder she can feel him make the shrugging motion._

_“Does the Sheriff know you’re doing this?” he asked, going back to picking bark off the limb._

_“He thinks I’m in a study group.”_

_“Scandalous! Lying to the Sheriff. Tsk Tsk. What will he say when he realizes you have money to fix your car?”_

_“How about we worry about what your dad is doing right now, instead of what my dad might do when he realizes what I’m up to?”_

_“I’m just making small talk, seeing as we’re hanging out now.”_

_“We’re not hanging out buddy, I’m working for you, remember. You’ve just come to pester me because you’re bored.”_

_Logan threw a leaf at her, and she swatted it away with a giggle. The second that giggle left her mouth, she swallowed it right back up._

_Aaron dined Annette, oblivious to the eyes watching them, the legs swaying from the branches of the tree. He draped his arm over her shoulders and they laughed and drank, but she left with nothing but a kiss on the cheek and Aaron retired to bed. Their three-hour date seemed to pass in rapid speed, Veronica pulled in the lens on her camera, storing it away in her bag. The chance at easy money was swiftly shut down, but she didn’t mind. She’d just come back again next week, see what happened then._

_Logan swung down, long arms outstretched like an orangutan, dropping the short distance to the stone pathway beneath them. He waited as she climbed down the long way, carefully finding her footing, and walked her to her car._

* * *

  
  


_Things didn’t go as planned._

_Aaron didn’t behave as anticipated. After his one night with Annette, the other nights that Logan had exited stage left had been busts. They spent a weekend trailing him, learning his movements, studying his interactions. Veronica found herself wholly disappointed. She imagined endless red carpets, lunch dates with Tom Hanks, hair coiffing appointments, the reality was far sadder. In the mornings they watched him sit in a corner booth at Java the Hut, reading a newspaper over a double espresso, waiting to be noticed. Eventually a few girls would approach, seeking his autograph, giggling, asking him to mimic the lines of his most famous movies, which he did willingly. He’d then spend the rest of the morning in the gym, equal amounts of time lifting weights as observing his reflection in the floor to ceiling mirrors. This was followed by a light lunch, a meeting with his agent, then home to swim laps in the pool, make himself dinner and fall asleep in front of Friends reruns by 9.30pm._

_Logan didn’t behave as anticipated, either. Spending all this time with him left her with a slew of feelings that she hadn’t signed up for. When he asked her to do this job, that was all it was, a job. Quick cash from a bottomless trust fund of a somewhat hot ‘09er, who otherwise would never have spoken to her. Veronica found she didn’t really mind if she caught Aaron at all; she didn’t even care about her $200 bonus. She cared about Logan. He could match her wit, sometimes even outsmart her, and he had an uncanny way of making her feel at home, sitting in his tree, exchanging unwarranted photography tips while eating from her endless stash of candy._

_But it had come to a close, this arrangement, she had fulfilled her end, four nights. They parted that Saturday with the exchange of the agreed six hundred dollars. A handshake seemed like a strange way to complete their transaction, but they did it anyway, and they each went their separate ways._

* * *

  
  


_Logan surfed, he cruised to the mall in his newly minted Xterra, he strolled the halls of school, he begrudgingly did his bio homework. And while he did this, he definitely wasn’t thinking about Veronica. The way she took extra long strides to keep up with him. The way her eyes sparkled, tossing sarcastic comments right back at him with casual ease. He wasn’t thinking about her every day in the shower, or every night when he lay awake staring at the ceiling._

_Except of course, when he was. Which was all the time._

_It snuck up on him. Sure, he liked her before, she was feisty, cute and smart, but he never had really talked to her, and now that he did, it made things so much worse. He found himself gravitating to those places he knew she may be. He didn’t even mind if she didn’t talk to him, of course, that was preferred, but at this point he’d take a mere glimpse of her just to get him through the monotony of another school day._

_It was a Thursday morning when Logan appeared at Veronica’s locker. Thursdays meant long braids down her back and hands jammed in his pockets to keep from gently touching one._

_“Can you give it one more try?” he tilted his head to the side with pleading brown eyes._

_“I’ve wasted precious study evenings on this and dad’s starting to suspect something’s up.”_

_“Another $200, just for one night, then you’re done, I promise never to darken your doorway, or locker again.”_

_Veronica smiled, “Well, with those kinds of promises, how could I possibly refuse?”_

_"How's Saturday?" He asked._

_"I think I can make that work."_

_Logan slept easily that night, knowing that Saturday was two sleeps away and in those two sleeps she would be back at his house, in his tree, so easily found. The air lingered with palpable promise for the first time in a long time._

* * *

  
  


_Under the guise of a night at Dick’s, Logan declared his departure. Aaron waved it off like he could care less where he was. He packed his bag and exited with a dramatic “Au revoir,” and a door slam to really cement his absent status for the evening._

_Logan dropped his bag in the Xterra, drove around the block, parked on a side-street and then scaled back over his own fence, crawled the limbs of the tree and waited for Veronica._

_A more level-headed person might have looked upon the questionable surveillance of his own father in a negative light. He might have felt an ounce of guilt, something, anything for encroaching on a parents’ right to privacy. But that person wasn’t Logan Echolls. His father was an abusive, manipulative bastard who deserved no such rights or privacy. That measly excuse for a human would be left divorced, disgraced, and he and his mom, and maybe even Trina, could move on._

_Veronica met him in their tree. She wore jeans, a pink fluffy sweater, her hair tied in a ponytail low on her neck. Scurrying up the tree with her messenger bag, she positioned herself on her favorite limb, took out her camera, pulled two bags of Cheetos and threw one at him. He almost missed the catch, but recovered it last minute by the top of the plastic packaging._

_They sat in that tree and talked until long after their fingers were tinged orange with Cheeto dust. Aaron Echolls lounged the couch, watched a baseball match, drank multiple beers and fell asleep by nine-thirty. The night was a bust, another waste, another nothing. Logan wondered if he was wrong all along, if maybe some cosmic universe existed where his father didn’t cheat, and maybe he’d imagined it all. Sad to see the night he’d looked forward to all week come to such an abrupt and disappointing end, he took a chance and offered to take Veronica out for ice-cream._

_She said yes._

_He took her to Dante's Ice-creamery, because according to Veronica, it was the best. She had claimed herself an aficionado in such matters and Logan didn't dare argue. He had a scoop of double fudge, Veronica two of mint chip in a waffle cone. She shouldn’t have gotten two scoops. She spent more time talking than eating and Logan had to watch the way her tongue kept interrupting her words to slide around catching the melty drips of soft green before they landed in her fingers._

_Somehow, she finished it all and while driving her back to the LeBaron they stopped at the beach, sitting on the hood of his Xterra. Because while he wanted a lot of things in life, his father gone, world peace, a new Channel Islands longboard, the thing he wanted most right in that moment, was for the night not to end._

_She reached into her bag, pulled out a large bag of Skittles, ripped the edge, tipping a rainbow of candies into her hand, their sugar crusts chiming, and passed him the open bag._

_“Didn’t we eat ice cream not twenty minutes ago?” he asked in jest, but with a complete acceptance that he would happily eat junk food with her until he exploded._

_She shrugged, staring into the pile of colors for the answer to the universe. Apparently the answer was yellow. She picked it up and deposited it in her mouth with a pop._

_He opened the top of her messenger bag and glanced inside, “Just wondering if maybe you have a small terrier in here too?”_

_She smiled and looked out to the sea. A piece of hair fluttered out from its tie in the breeze and whipped around her head. The night was cold, the ocean wind prickling his cheeks, but he didn’t feel it._

_“Is your dad really as bad as you think he is?” she asked, then selected an orange orb._

_“He’s worse,” Logan answered matter-of-factly._

_“I’m sorry.”_

_Normally he would stop the conversation right there, a full stop, no need to elaborate, but he felt something akin to trust with Veronica. Not only did he want to tell her more, he believed that maybe, one day, he could tell her everything . It was a feeling he was wholly unfamiliar with._

_“Imagine the entire world loves someone, but you know that deep down they’re dead inside, a festering black soul. And you would tell the world, but no one would believe you, they’d call you crazy. So you go home and you live with that black soul every day, and he does his evil things and you get to sit back and watch them all unfold, all while the world cheers him on.”_

_“Only a few more years and you could move out?” She offered a positive spin, finally collecting the stray piece of hair, snuggling it behind her ear in a quick swipe._

_“Six hundred and sixty-five days, give or take.”_

_“Not that you’re counting.”_

_“Not at all.”_

_“Maybe he is as bad as you say, and he’s just not having an affair?”_

_“The likelihood of him not having an affair is the same as me being struck by lightning, juggling bowling pins, wearing a bikini.”_

_“Now, I’d pay to see that,” she says._

_“I know you would,” Logan smiled at her while the waves met the shore in the background, making their incessant roar. He placed an entire handful of Skittles into his mouth._

_“We can’t all win the parent lottery like you,” he said, struggling through a cheekful of candy. Veronica kicked her head back and laughed dramatically. The curve of her exposed neck stopped him mid-chew._

_“Are we playing compare the shitty parent?”_

_“We could, but you need to know, I will win.”_

_“Sure, my dad can be somewhat cool when he’s not wielding his uncanny knowledge of 70s rock bands but let’s not discount my mom in this situation. We’re talking capital A alcoholic, with a thing for hiding her glaringly obvious addiction and using the guise of Wednesday nights at AA to start up an affair with Paul Pesanello, owner and operator of First Fitness, franchised across ten states. She up and left last year, presumably with him, I say presumably because it would require actual contact with her daughter or husband in order to confirm such details.” She took a deep breath, ran her hands over her jeans, scrounged in her satchel for more snack foods but found none. Logan passed her back the Skittles bag._

_“Shit, Veronica, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”_

_She waved it off, “Whatever, things are better now that she’s gone. We don’t walk on eggshells anymore. There’s considerably less yelling. Dad’s oddly stoic, which makes me worried that he’s repressing everything. You know, just the usual kids worrying about their parents when it should be the other way around.”_

_“Do you think she’ll come back?” he asked._

_“Maybe, maybe not.”_

_“Do you want her to come back?”_

_“Some days I want her to just come back into the kitchen and make waffles and sing out of tune and make dad smile again, other days I want her to come back so I can push her into wet concrete, build a house over the top.”_

_“I understand that feeling,” he said, realizing for the first time that they may share more similarities than differences. Solid ground is an illusion, people, families are always in flux, the only certainty is uncertainty. Even the ones you should be able to trust most in the world, let you down._

_They passed that red Skittles packet back and forth between them, half for the actual candies, half for the opportunity presented by the brush of fingers on the pass. As it continues, Logan takes less and less, just to keep the movement in perpetuum._

_She looks at him, “How about I give it one more go? One last try before your mom comes home?”_

_“You are a determined little bobcat, aren’t you?” he smiles, realizing she’s doing this for him, trying to repair in his life what she can’t with her own, “I’m going down to Dick’s beach house in Ensenada for the break, so I won’t be able to come, but I guess I could cancel?”_

_“That’s okay, I’m sure I can sit in a tree and snap photos by myself.”_

_“But who will annoy you?” he asked, making a grin that took over his entire face._

_“I will simply have to annoy myself,” she smiled back._

_“It’s a thankless job,” he added._

_She laid against the windshield, looking up at the stars. He let his eyes track her, studying her in profile, the gentle curve of her nose, the way it swooped down and met her lips, her tiny chin. They disappeared into the abyss of the night together._

_Logan knew she knew he was watching her, but he didn’t care._

_“Stop looking at me,” she said, a featherlight smile creasing her mouth._

_“I’m not looking at you, I’m admiring that lovely tree behind you.”_

_She chuckled, “Good, I mean, it’s bullshit of course, but good.”_

_“That tree is really beautiful,” he said, voice softer._

_“Good to know.”_

_He stopped looking at her, turning his head away, peering out across the dunes, all black. There was barely a moon, just a banana-like sliver behind them, hardly enough to see five feet ahead, even with eyes adjusted. All the while, the constant wind against them._

_He tried to think of something to say, small talk, words of some kind, any kind, but he can’t seem to access them. Instead, he kept his head turned, running his hand across the hood, drawing circles with his fingertips._

_She moved beside him, readjusting on the hard surface, closer to him, close enough to make him turn his head, look at her. What he saw was her lifting her hands, taking his face within them, bringing her lips to his and kissing him._

_Logan froze._

_It took a few seconds to register, the night, the cuffs of her sleeve scratching his jaw, the warmth of Veronica’s lips on his. When his brain finally towed the line, she had pulled back, eyes wide, and immediately laid back upon the windshield._

_He sat there, numb for what seemed like an eternity before he coaxed his brain back to life. Veronica Mars kissed him and now she lay beside him on the hood of his Xterra, eyes clenched closed._

_He leaned over her, laying a gentle palm against her face, so as not to shock her. Her eyes flickered open. He bent his body down and kissed her this time. Properly._

_He kissed her until he tasted the yellow and purple Skittles, the best flavors. And best of all, she kissed him back._

* * *

  
  


_He floated to Dick’s house that night, unsure how he got there, not quite sure why he couldn’t feel his cheeks except when he realized he couldn’t stop smiling. That had never happened before._

_Dick didn’t understand the concept of these odd sleepovers where Logan would appear at 11pm or later and just fall into the spare bed, but he let it fly. Because he knew Aaron Echolls, he’d seen his tortuous blind rage once. That was enough._

_Logan was beyond caring what anyone thought of his late night activities. A series of kisses on a dark car hood had propelled him into the clouds._

* * *

  
  


_The house was dark, Aaron nowhere to be seen. She told herself she’d wait until ten o’clock, but the minutes dragged by with no Logan to chat with, no Logan to pester her, no Logan to kiss._

_The air was cool and the wind wild that night. The tree she’d come to find comfort in, a strange connection to its tangled smooth limbs, was in riot. Just as she was about to pack away her camera and climb down, she saw movement in the dark kitchen. A figure, two figures, moved across the black. She pulled the lens back to her face, zooming in, but could see nothing. Trained on them, she followed the movement but the tree’s waxy leaves flapped in the invisible chaos, swooping into her lens, obscuring her vision. They were fighting her that night. They were telling her that her time was up, get out, go home. This was no place for a teenager on a school night. Pulling her jacket tighter around her, she felt the goosebumps settle on her skin._

_She moved back and forth, scanning each room, finding nothing. Until a lamp flicked on in Aaron’s bedroom. With the curtains drawn wide she could identify the figures, Aaron, and an unknown woman. The woman was slight, blonde hair pulled off her face. Kissing furiously, he pushed her against a wall, removing her bronze colored shirt. Veronica brought the lens back to her eye and zoomed in, snapping as many pictures as she can with shaking fingers. She feels an uneasiness rise through her chest, this intimate moment, observed by her from amongst the leaves. It felt wrong, her the voyeur, watching an old movie-star about to have sex. She felt a tug to leave, to run away. So she took as many snaps of them kissing as she could wanting desperately to scurry out of the tree, slip back into the darkness and not have to observe the final act._

_Unbuttoning his pants, Aaron slipped off his belt. The woman came into view and Veronica hammered the shutter, a series of clicks, and she was done. She flung the camera into the bag, dropped from the branches and scurried past the pool, down the drive and climbed the spot of the high fence where Logan’s ladder sat._

_Out on the road, she pulled the camera back out of her bag, flicking through the photos on the video screen. Her fingers quivered, hitting all the wrong buttons. She knew what she thought she saw, but it wasn’t until she zoomed in, seeing it in thousands of pixels before her, she knew she was right._

* * *

_Veronica slunk into the Balboa County Sheriff’s office before school, armed with a USB stick and a side of trepidation. All the officers smiled and waved, asking how she was doing. She threw back hellos and walked through like she owned the place; she knew every scratch on each crappy desk, each chipped coffee mug. Half of those crappy desks were currently piled up against the wall, awaiting replacement. Mayor Burano had generously given the department the money they’d been asking for for years to upgrade the department. Replace the perilous three wheeled chairs, new desks, a splash of paint on the walls. The rag-tag bunch of mostly rookies stood around, drinking their morning coffees, excited about the impending changes._

_Peering through the bent blinds she saw Keith behind his desk, pen in hand, the familiar wad of yesterday's traffic tickets before him being signed-off._

_Veronica came here because she didn't know where else to go. A night spent tossing and turning in her sheets, and then, because she couldn’t leave well enough alone she went back to Logan’s house. Aaron, obviously feeling safer with his son firmly planted in another country, was not alone._

_She needed an adult. She needed her dad._

_“How’s the best Sheriff in the contiguous United States?” she asked, opening the door, swanning into the seat before him. It felt nice to sit down, to rest her tired body._

_“I don’t know, you’ll have to ask him,” said Keith, looking up smiling, a dimple on the right cheek._

_“What could my daughter possibly want with an opening line like that? A pony, a diamond… bail money?”_

_Veronica smiled sweetly and masked her nervousness as best she could, “There’s an old proverb. It’s better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.”_

_He leveled his eyes, “That’s not a proverb Veronica, that was Admiral Grace Hopper.”_

_“Damn you and your impeccable general knowledge. How are the new digs coming along? Are you getting a new coffee machine?”_

_“No new coffee machine, unfortunately we will have to deal with drippy a little longer. But the majority of the fitout will be done this weekend.”_

_“Exciting!”_

_He dropped his pen, “Stop changing the subject, spit it out Veronica, what are you asking for forgiveness for? I’m nervous now, it sounds bad.”_

_She shuffled in her seat, “Gotta be honest, it’s not great, consider this your warning.”_

_“Give it to me on a scale of 1-10.”_

_Veronica outstretched her hands for a measurement, “It depends on the scale you’re using. The good news is that the scale doesn’t necessarily apply to me. I’m not hurt or pregnant.”_

_“Well, that’s a bonus. I feel a but coming on…”_

_“I think this is one of those things you need to see to comprehend.”_

_She stood, whipping the USB from her bag, leaning down to plug it into his computer._

_“Oh, a USB, this should be fun.”_

_She opened the file, pressed the little yellow folder and waited for the images to appear. One by one they filled the file box. Clicking on the most recent, she began flicking through them. Keith squinted at the pictures, she stopped at Aaron Echolls and Jessica Baranowski pressed against the wall._

_“Jesus Veronica, you took these?” he asked._

_“Allegedly.”_

_“Why are you taking photos of Aaron Echolls?”_

_She shrugged, “Logan paid me to.”_

_"Can I assume that your recent Saturday night study sessions were pure fabrication, then?"_

_"Possibly," she looked away._

_“You can’t just go in and take photos of people, Veronica! What Aaron Echolls does in his own property is his own business, even if it is morally questionable.”_

_Veronica leaned forward, pointing to the side profile of the girl, “Dad, this is Jessica Baranowski, a junior from Neptune High, she’s fifteen.”_

_Keith’s mouth pursed and his eyes narrowed. Veronica flicked through a few more photos, landing on the brunette she snapped late last night._

_“And this is Britany Mills, she turned sixteen last month, I know because her parents gave her a pastel pink Mercedes as a gift.”_

_“Jesus,” said Keith, head in hands._

_The door to the office cracked open and Deputy Sacks let his mustache peer in, Veronica closed the open files with lightning speed._

_“Oh, hey Veronica,” he said, lifting a hand in wave, “Sorry Keith, we’ve just brought Andrews in, he’s sitting in the break room, not sure how long we can keep him there?”_

_Keith nodded, “Sure, no worries, I’ll be there in a moment.”_

_Sacks smiled, pulling his head out as quickly as it came in._

_“The interrogation room is full of all the filing cabinets ready for painting tonight, so the break room has been repurposed.”_

_“Criminals next to the coffee pot?”_

_“Something like that.”_

_Veronica opened up the photos again for effect, before starting her speech, “He’s a predator, Dad. Something needs to be done about this. I saw him at Java the Hut. He sits there every morning, he waits for girls to ask for autographs. I saw him with Jessica a few days earlier,” she went to continue but Keith held out a hand, stopping her._

_“You’re right, he is and something will be done, but Veronica, where are these photos taken from?”_

_“The tree outside their pool.”_

_“On his property?”_

_She nodded, Keith shook his head._

_“That’s bad, you’re trespassing and taking unlicensed photos of Aaron Echolls. If you had a warrant, sure, but you don’t. Even a Private Investigator can’t take photos of a person on their own property, especially from inside that property.”_

_“But Logan let me in, he asked me to.”_

_“Logan is a minor, Veronica, according to the law, he has no say in anything unless his name is on the deed.”_

_“So I’m the bad guy here? Dad, that’s felony statutory rape! Minimum two years.”_

_“That’s only if we have a complainant. We need one of them and more , Aaron Echolls would have lawyers on standby, he’s not going to take this kind of accusation without a fight. That’s why we need to be very careful.” He pointed to the screen, “You haven’t shown these to anyone?”_

_“No.”_

_“Not even Logan?” he asked._

_Veronica shook her head, staring at the carpet. She couldn’t explain why she hadn’t called Logan yet, she didn’t quite know herself._

_Keith pressed his spine against the back of the chair, pinching the bridge of his nose, “ Why Veronica? Why did Logan want you following his Dad? Did he know about this?”_

_“No, he just wanted to catch his dad cheating.”_

_“This isn’t about the ball joints on your car? Is it? You did it for the money?”_

_“Maybe.”_

_“I said I’d pay for them, Veronica, just next week after my check comes in.“_

_“I don’t care about the stupid car anymore, what are we going to do about that ?” she leveled a finger at the screen, at a 44-year-old man, and a 15-year-old girl._

_“ **We** are going to do nothing. **You** are going to go home and stay in the house and do your economics homework or hang at the mall and buy junior prom dresses like a normal teenager…” _

_“But,” she interrupted._

_“Veronica. I will deal with this, I will need to get authorized surveillance on him, legit, by the book, and then we will assess the proper avenues to take against him.”_

_“Can you give me the weekend?” she pleaded._

_“What? Why?”_

_“I need to show Logan, explain everything, but he’s away until Sunday night.”_

_“You can’t call him?”_

_“I think it’s better in person, he needs to see the pictures.”_

_Keith nodded and looked at the clock, it was late on a Friday. Very little could be attained over the weekend and he needed time to work out his angle on this one._

_“I’ll give you until Monday morning. First thing. When I’m here, I will start the process. We can’t let this drag on, the longer it takes, the more girls this might happen to.”_

_“Okay.”_

_She pulls out the USB and hands it to him, “You keep this, I have the printouts.”_

_He took the little blue stick from her hand with a sigh, “I didn’t even know you were friends with Logan.”_

_“I’m not, not really.”_

_“Probably a good thing,” said Keith as he turned and placed the USB into his shirt pocket, picking up his pen, shuffling his stack of traffic violations._

_Veronica collected her bag, slung it over her shoulder, moving toward the door._

_“I’m sorry,” she said and meant it. She always hated lying to her dad._

_“It’s okay.”_

_“I’ll make some of those mozzarella stuffed meatballs for dinner to make up for it,” she offered, and his face brightened a little._

_“And garlic bread?”_

_She nodded, “and for dessert your very own selection of choice tubs of ice cream, fresh from the freezer.”_

_“Okay, that’s fair.”_

_Veronica drove home, divulging her sins to Keith made her feel marginally better. But a ball of terror still sat in her gut, she needed to tell Logan._

* * *

_The pounding on the door came on Sunday afternoon, just after she’d gotten out of the shower, legs moisturized and hair still wet. Keith was out doing the weekly groceries, so she opened it, assuming he’d forgotten his keys._

_“Oh, hey Logan,” she stood back to let him in, but he didn’t move, feet frozen outside. He threw a tabloid toward her and it fell to the floor. Crouching down, she picked it up. Across the front was a picture of Aaron Echolls and a blurred face, her photo of Aaron Echolls and a blurred face she knew to be Jessica Baranowski. A photo that could have only been taken from a spot in the tree, her spot in the tree._

_“Logan, I … “ she started._

_“Page two,” he interrupted. She took a breath, looked down, turned the page._

_There she sees the series of photos she’d taken, the night Aaron was with Annette, the night Logan teased her in the tree. Then the photos of Aaron and the young girls with the headline ECHOLLS’ MINOR AFFAIR ._

_His voice was level, but she could see he was mustering every ounce of strength for composure, “I asked you to take photos, Veronica, I didn’t ask you to sell them to the highest bidder. My mom had to be sedated. Why didn’t you just come to me, call me, tell me, show them to me? I realize you need money, fuck I would have given you more money if you just fucking asked for it. Send him to jail for all I care, but don’t do it like this!”_

_“Logan, it wasn’t me, I didn’t sell those pictures!”_

_“ Who then, who did?”_

_Veronica scrambled, going back through her day desperately in her head, “I don’t know.”_

_“Was it your Dad?” he asked._

_“Absolutely not,” Veronica replied, adamant._

_“I was going to show you, to explain.”_

_“I don’t even care that the world knows about that piece of shit, what I don’t understand is why my mom, my sister, why I had to learn about it in the fucking paper,” he’s yelling now, Veronica can see his eyes glistening and she prays he doesn’t cry right now._

_“Please, Logan, I’ll find out who did this.”_

_“Don’t bother,” he said, pivoting on his heels and walking away._

* * *

  
  


Her eyes are the same seventeen years later, pleading with him, a desperate blue. Blonde hair falling over her shoulders, boots dusty from her brisk walk following him to the stables.

Opie, Piper’s mare whinnies, clearly agitated, a direct response to the tension in the air.

The sight of Veronica agitates Logan, clouded by a years old betrayal and the strange, sweet taste of Skittles on his tongue.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that as this unfolds we keep getting more questions than answers, but I promise, we'll get there!
> 
> Thank you to Aurora2020 for her tireless beta work on this long chapter. xo


	6. Everything in it's Right Place

He takes a breath.

Then another. 

Maybe Piper was right? It was time to listen, to stop fighting it. Veronica’s here now, in his space, in his barn, surrounded by the aroma of horse and warm manure. Her eyes are pleading with him to hear the words that teenage Logan wasn’t ready to hear. 

“Okay,” he says, reclining against the wall, waiting. 

“Okay, what?” 

“Say what you’ve been trying to. I’m listening.”

She looks at Logan, shock on her face, but then peers down when she realizes how acutely he’s staring. 

He clung to this moment with her in his childhood like a talisman. If you let yourself open up, they will crush you. If you trust, they will betray you. Everything that came over the years, the bad and the good, seemed to grow its branches from this starting point. Veronica gave him his first kiss. His first heartbreak. Those butterflies that floated in with her flew quickly away. Sixteen-year-old Logan replaced them with a cloud of gray, with practiced speeches he would never remember in the moment. Hindsight calls it a pivotal moment. Teen Logan just called it being pissed off.

“Really?” she asks.

“You better take this opportunity now, before I change my mind.”

She looks put on the spot. Like you’ve been practicing for a school debate all weekend and they change the topic the moment you walk to the podium.

Veronica holds out her hands and says, “I fucked up.”

Logan’s a little shocked, expecting a fight, expecting explanations.

“I didn’t tell you when I should have, I should have called the moment I found out.”

“Why didn’t you?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I saw him with Jessica and then I went back the next night, because I had to see more.”

“And you saw Britany?”

She nods. 

“When I saw Britany, I got scared. Fucking terrified. So I went to my Dad,” Veronica says with hunched shoulders, and eyes relaying the feelings she had in those past moments.

He sees it, what he missed all along. She was not that different from those young girls, neither was he. They were teenagers, trying to navigate adult problems. He imagines Piper in her situation, finding an empathy he could never access before.

She straightens and continues, “You know what I realize now, that it didn’t matter if I sold the pictures or not. I was sloppy, without meaning to be, it didn’t occur to me they might be compromised.“

“I was just so blindsided. You could have called me, told me when it happened. But you didn’t. So this sledgehammer just came from nowhere and threw me down, threw us all down.”

“I was sixteen and what I saw fucking terrified me. I was scared for you, I was scared for me. I went to my dad because I didn’t know what the hell to do. Logan, I was going to tell you. I was just waiting till you got home...to tell you in person," She pauses, “Obviously not one of my more brilliant ideas.”

He sighs, pressing his palms against the wall. A fly buzzes past them, down the length of the barn, “I know that eventually it would have got out, I know that. I’m not angry that it all came out. He deserved all the shit he got. It just happened in the worst possible way.”

Lynn arrived back into the country the morning the news broke, her head under a jacket at the airport to a swarm of cameras. Logan was followed to school, followed home again. It was the beginning, the horrible beginning of a years long nightmare. Of paparazzi hounding them, of constant tabloids, of speculation, of a media filled trial, and ironically, the thing he desired most, the beginning of his parent’s divorce. 

“I tried to find out who did it, who found the pictures, who sold them. I spent weeks tracking back, with nothing. The newspaper wouldn’t give me the name, saying it was an anonymous cash payment. Whoever it was got six grand," she says. 

“Six grand?” 

Veronica nods.

“Fuck.”

“I thought I’d find out who it was, I really did. I thought I’d come to you one day and be able to tell you the truth about what happened. But, I still don’t know. Dad had the USB. He doesn’t know how he lost it, he figured it fell out of his pocket. There were different workers and contractors there over that weekend, it became impossible to nail down one culprit.”

He kicks at the ground, at pieces of hay floating around on the concrete. 

“If it’s any consolation, I was just as angry at myself for starting the whole thing, for asking you to take those photos, as I was with you,” he says, quietly.

In school he passed her for three more years in silence. He told no one it was her, not a soul what had transpired between them. Instead, he found it easier to pretend she didn’t exist, walking by her in the halls with a downward glance. It was only a few weeks and one kiss, he told himself. It was nothing.

“I think I always knew he’d get away with whatever he did in life. He was slimy like that. He never made another movie. I guess that was a type of punishment for him,” he says.

Veronica nods, “The law is fucked,” she says, emphasis on the fucked.

He laughs for the first time, “That it is.”

“He died not long after, living in a Vegas penthouse with a 23-year-old cocktail waitress. Apparently, Ambien and an evening of vodka don’t mix.”

“I heard,” she says.

“I never spoke to him again, after that day. After the news broke. Not one word.”

“Do you regret it, not talking to him?”

He shrugs, walks over and pats Banjo, feels the velvet of the horse’s fur, runs a hand behind his ear. A white patch on his forehead, the shape of a wolf howling. Logan traces the outline as the horse tilts his muzzle, touching his owner’s face with his in a private moment of calm.

“I regret not telling him how he hurt us. I regret not punching his face, not breaking his nose, not making him bleed. I regret all those things in life that I was angry with that really stemmed from my anger at him.  _ He  _ was the catalyst for it all.”

She nods.

The silence is broken by footfalls and the sound of panting from behind them. Houdini rubs against Logan’s leg, leaving a patch of white molting fur. Bill appears not far behind, watching the space between Veronica and Logan curiously.

“Veronica, this is Bill. Bill, Veronica.”

“Hey,” she says raising a hand, Bill mumbles something that sounds like a hello before walking into one of the further stalls. 

The presence of another person has broken the moment and Logan takes a step back from her.

“So, um, I don’t really want to talk about Aaron anymore, or about the past.”

“I get that. I’m not so keen on it either.”

“What are you doing here, Veronica?” he asks before turning and walking into a stable. He collects a lead rope, hooks a clip onto Banjo’s chin hold, pushes open the door and walks out, horse by his side. Veronica pins her back up against the wall. He inclines his head for her to follow. She comes along but leaves a wide distance between the horse’s hind legs and herself. From the tack room, Logan collects a red blanket and pulls a saddle down from the wall.

He works while she speaks, “I’m searching for someone, someone I think is hiding out nearby.”

“Okay.”

“Do you know about the pocket of land on the west of your ranch? A hundred and fifty acres.”

“Yeah. It was a re-zoning of the original national park boundaries years back. Legally it should have been offered to the old owners of this ranch but it was advertised and sold without their knowledge.”

“Well, I believe someone’s living there, in a cabin or a shack or something. I have satellite images showing a structure there. According to the land title it’s one of the aliases of Stephen Moyer who is wanted for murder.”

Logan scrunches his nose, looks at her head tilted, “If that’s the case, then why aren’t cops storming it?”

“Because I don’t know for sure. I need to do some surveillance, prove his whereabouts.”

“What is it with you and surveillance?” He asks with a smile that’s bordering on a joke.

“Like before, kinda need the money,” she admits.

Logan diffuses her admission, “Do you still take an armful of candy?”

“It’s essential to any good stakeout,” she says with a soft smile.

“Who did he kill?” he asks, placing on the blanket, running a hand across Banjo’s back and loins. 

“He shot two cops eight years ago, one died. I just need your permission to use your land to get to him, I’m just going to hang back, take some photos and leave. I submit them to the LAPD, they do the rest.”

“So you’re telling me, of all the murderers you could be chasing in the US, you found one in  _ my _ backyard?”

“Pretty much.”

“It’s like the madness follows me,” he groans, shaking his head, “Is he worth it?”

“He’s worth a hundred thousand,” Veronica says, and Logan sighs.

“How are you going to get there?” he asks, curious.

“I’ve got an SUV rental, I could use that until I get closer, then walk.”

He chuckles, “Your little SUV isn’t going anywhere.”

“Why?” 

“This ground is full of granite rocks, as soon as you get a few miles west of here things start to get steep, then you can barely penetrate the woods, you’ve got two rivers to cross, one is a good forty foot wide this time of year.”

“I’ll hike then,” she says, and he shakes his head again, hoisting the saddle onto the horse’s wide back, sliding it back and forth into position, kneeling down to buckle the girth strap beneath its belly. Banjo’s head cranes around watching Logan’s progress, pressing a nostril into his backside with a snort.

“What if this man isn’t who you think he is, what if he’s just some poor guy who bought a block of land and he just wants privacy?” Logan makes eye contact with her, then looks back at his own house. He understands the need for sanctuary, feeling his own borders breached.

“What if he’s not? What if he’s a murderer, like all the evidence points him to be, and he’s living next to your property? Right next to your family,” she says, eyebrows raised.

“That’s a low blow.”

Girth strap tied and tight, he picks up a brown leather bridle, a gentle hand over the horse’s head. He places his hand flat and guides the bit in his mouth. The horse kicks his head back slightly, but allows it in. He buckles the bridle, loops the reins around the horse’s head. Walks Banjo in a tight circle and tightens the girth strap again. 

“Please Logan, I’ve got all the maps, GPS, I will trek through, I won’t disturb anything on your land.”

“I don’t know what to say, Veronica. I don’t know what the right answer is here. Can I think about it?”

She nods quickly, “Yes, of course.”

He lifts his left foot, places it into the stirrup and pulls himself into the saddle, wiggling his backside, getting his feet into position. The horse moves forward and he calls out a “woah.”

“How about you come by tomorrow, bring your maps, show me what you’re looking for, we can talk about it some more?”

“Thanks Logan,” she says, “and again, I’m sorry.”

Logan nods, squeezes the horse with his thighs, signaling him to move, Banjo begins to walk but a gentle press of his right boot turns him in a circle, right back to Veronica.

“How did you find me?” he asks, curious.

“Tenacity mostly.” 

He levels his eyes at her, and she confesses, “Remember Cindy Mackenzie?”

“Punk nerd, right?”

“That’s the one. She has a finely honed set of skills.”

“Hmm,” he replies, “I might need to have a chat with her.”

Logan squeezes the barrel, walks the horse slowly out of the yard. Once they pass the gate through to the field, the horse starts into a canter. The paddock opens out, tufts of grasses turn into neatly sewn crops. They’ve all turned their heads, crisped by the warm days, yellowed and ready for harvest in the coming month. When he passes Bill’s stone cottage, Banjo sufficiently warmed up, he transitions into a gallop. Swift legs and thunderous hoofbeats on the ground, the air whipping past him, straightening his hair and stinging his eyes.

* * *

Through the wide panes of the kitchen windows, Piper watches their exchange. Her dad, who had left the house bristled and shaken, had relaxed as they talked. His shoulders dropped, his fists unclenched. When she saw the woman, Veronica, approach him from behind, she almost pounded on the window to alert him, but she didn’t. All she could do was stare at their conversation in rapt attention. 

She wished for a listening device, a small bug she could place in her dad’s pocket, or stick to the back of his phone. She’d looked them up on eBay once, $65 including delivery, but she didn’t order one, preferring the idea of it more than the reality. Their body language suggests some familiarity, but they’re keeping a distance. She notices their feet seem to move in unison. Her dad goes into the stables, Veronica follows, she can still see them as they linger near the door, near Banjo’s stall. The words exchanged at her front door that seemed to have so much venom had subsided now; they had calmed, her dad even smiled. She watches him take Banjo out, saddle and bridle him before riding away into the southern fields.

Veronica stays behind, watching him, black boots on the gravel. Piper loses sight of her father, and so does Veronica as she makes her way back down the path, back to her car. Piper waits until her SUV has gone the entire length of the driveway, outside her field of vision before she takes the stairs, two at a time up to her room.

She presses the home button on her iPad, it comes alive. A click of a browser, the typing of two words.

_ Veronica Mars. _

The search brings up an old website for Mars Investigations in Neptune. It has nothing personal, just a few old testimonials, general details, a contact form. It’s out of date and half of the links are broken. The other results are references to her in newspapers, credit for solving a burglary, a mention in relation to a witnessed assault, a photo of her in freshman year at Hearst.

She goes to her bookshelf pulling out the Neptune High yearbook. The pages are dogeared. The photo she seeks is bookmarked with a blue ribbon she won in her 5th grade spelling bee where she beat out Carly McCraven with the word  _ perseverance _ .

Peering at the black and white class photo, her eyes find her mother first, she knows her place, front row, third from the right. The sheen has disappeared over her face where she ran a finger so often. 

Piper covets the space her mother once occupied. Fascinated by not just who she was, but the secret fragments of her. At any time she could place a DVD in the player and watch hours of her, watch her laugh, watch her dance, watch her kiss random handsome actors. But that person she could access online and onscreen was not her mother. Her voice was different, both colder and warmer somehow. Her mother was playful and confident and bold, her mother giggled with her, read her inappropriate romance novels at seven and tied her hair before school in the morning. 

She remembers these things and she focuses on them. She holds the snippets front and center in her mind, making them bigger, making them real. All to try and bury those other moments, the ones where Lilly would be absent for days, for weeks, when she would spend all day in bed, unable to move. When she’d return late at night, breath smelling sour and wake her daughter to tell her debaucherous stories that breached the lines of fantasy and reality.

Lilly died when Piper was just nine. When she was barely four feet tall, when she lived a different life, one surrounded by people, by cameras, by the sea. So she sits in this room, by the mountains all alone, and she seeks the past. 

A painted pink fingernail moves to her dad. He’s taller, placed in the back row beside Dick, his face in a borderline grimace. His stature long and gangly, like most of the boys in her class. Not like now, where he’s rigid and wide like an impenetrable wall. Literally  _ and  _ figuratively. She worries about him, the growing responsibilities he takes on. The constant pressure he puts on himself for growth. Like he’s listened to all those things the media told him about himself, and he spends every waking moment in the constant endeavor to be the exact opposite. 

But he’s none of the things they say. Not one.

They learned to ride horses together, fall off them together. When she tells him “love you, Dad,” he looks at her, an ethereal smile, like no one’s ever said it before, like she’s the first time, sometimes she’s worried she is. He loves her with every molecule of his being, and she knows this wholeheartedly. 

Her eyes scan the other smiling faces until she finds what she’s looking for. Second row, in a hooded denim jacket. The person who stood on her front porch today.

Veronica Mars. 

* * *

Logan’s shirt is sticking to his chest, he’s windswept and fine grains of dirt pattern his face. He turns on a rusty tap on the side of the barn, places his face underneath, scrubbing his hands back and forth across the stubble, filling his mouth with the cool water, spitting it onto the ground. 

Bill is shoeing Opie when Logan strolls up and watches him. He sits upon a small stool backward, the horse’s front leg is curled back in his lap, the base of the hoof to his face. Grimy fingers drag a long metal file back and forth in sweeping shifts across the front of the hoof. The horse stands completely still, eyes lolling closed for his pedicure.

“Who’s the girl?” Bill registers Logan’s presence and asks in a rare display of interest in anything that isn’t four legged. 

“A PI, someone I went to school with. “

“Old girlfriend?” he asks, a curl of a smirk on his lips where the stump of a cigarette lies.

“No.”

Bill looks disappointed. 

“What’s she doin’  _ here _ ?”

“She wants to go out to the block by Whitetail Peak.”

Bill stops his movements and looks up, “Why?”

“She thinks someone’s living there.”

“In the shack?” Bill asks.

Logan nods. 

Bill says something indistinguishable, pulls out a large pair of cutters, and begins making small cuts along the outer hoof in a semicircle. After all the cuts are made a circular piece of black nail falls to the ground and Houdini scrambles across on his belly and starts chewing on the fetid piece of cartilage. Bill resumes filing again.

“Did you tell her it’s there?”

“No. She said she saw it on satellite images.”

“Who does she think’s living there?”

“A man wanted for murder. Some big reward. She needs the money. “

Bill processes the information, the cogwheels turning in his mind a visual process with the skewing of his eyebrows and the movement of a puzzle of forehead wrinkles.

“You gonna take her?”

Logan shrugs, “She wants to trek there herself.”

“Well that’s fuckin’ ridiculous,” Bill says as a gust of wind blows his cigarette smoke into Logan’s eyes and he blinks twice. Bill throws it down and stomps it out with the heel of his boot. He then drops the hoof to the ground and drags his stool to the rear leg.

When Logan doesn’t speak, Bill does, “What ya gonna do?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

* * *

Veronica lays back in her hotel room, her calves ache, her head pounds, everything just feels like  _ too much.  _ She’s drained from yesterday’s travel, but mainly she’s exhausted by today. 

Seeking a friend, she calls Mac.

“Hey,”

“Hey you, how’d it go?” Mac asks.

Veronica can hear the television in the background, Luke watching his sitcoms. She wants to be on that couch with them instead of alone in this hotel room.

“I don’t know. Good. Bad. I’m still not entirely sure.”

Mac pauses, “He spoke to you?” 

“He did... eventually,” she says, pulling at the tightly tucked sheets on her bed so she can scramble beneath them.

“And will he let you use his place?”

“He’s thinking about it.”

“Well, that’s better than a no.”

Veronica sighs, “It could still be a no.”

“Your Dad’s fine, I went there this afternoon. He was none too pleased with my arrival,” says Mac and Veronica chuckles. Keith always fought any help anyone tried to give him, he’d been fighting off Veronica's help for years. It was good to hear that his grumpiness wasn’t reserved solely for her.

A comfortable silence forms between them as Veronica listens to the television in Neptune, to the sound of Mac’s breathing.

“Are you okay V?” She asks.

Veronica pulls the covers up to her neck quietly, thinking about the question. 

“I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aurora2020 the star who saves me from myself. Thankyou for all your hard beta work!


End file.
